


Rachmaninov & Chill

by Serenhawk



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Awkward Romance, Cockles, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Misha, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Sitcom, UST, confused curious!Misha, openly bi!Jensen, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 00:11:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11279691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenhawk/pseuds/Serenhawk
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that falling for your roommate is a Very Bad Idea. So accidentally falling for his roommate, who may-or-may-not be involved with his other roommate, might just turn out to be one of the most regrettable things Misha has ever done.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a College/Coffee Shop adjacent AU  
> It's not the first AU I wanted to post. It's not even the first musician!Jensen AU I wanted to post, but it happens to be the one I've finished.
> 
> It's been sitting on my pile for about a year, and stems from a late-night DtoA Bookclub discussion re: shipping Benedackles vs Rob/Matt, during which I vaguely recall declaring "I'll go write a 2k crack ficlet where Misha moves in with Jensen & Rob and mistakes them for a couple!" It seemed like a good idea at the time...
> 
> This is a work of fiction. No disrespect intended to those whose names are used.

 

 

 

Misha was in deep, deep trouble.

 

It was a relief to finally acknowledge it, if only sighed to the worn library copy of 'Pedagogy of the Oppressed' propped on his stomach.

He was also mystified.

That didn’t begin to cover it.  _Exasperated...discombobulated...infatuated...wretched..._ Flipping the pages of his internal thesaurus didn’t yield anything satisfying, so he settled on _so sexually frustrated I’m losing my fucking mind._

It was entirely possible he was misdirecting his loneliness. He was well clear of the six-month rebound quarantine from Alex, and though he considered himself reasonably self-contained he missed having someone to keep him from facing too inward. He was also likely misreading, well...everything.

It’s not like it would be the first time he’d profoundly misinterpreted a situation, to his own infinite embarrassment. Many of the nuances of human interaction baffled him; it’s why he spent so much time observing them. But the particular interactions he kept finding himself both a bystander to and participant in since he’d moved into the somewhat dilapidated loft occupied by two faded t-shirt and denim-clad musicians, had him reevaluating more than just what he knew about other people.

When he’d taken the room, he’d done so without giving the decision any time to percolate. He’d just wanted to be living off campus again, feeling at the grand age of twenty-four far too advanced in years to be sentenced to a dorm. The only reason he’d taken the RA job was that it had come up right when he desperately needed to be out of the apartment he was in - sharing a tiny one-bed with your ex when you’d only just broken up, no matter how amicably, was unlikely to end well. But it was out of the proverbial frying pan and into the fresh hell of shutting dorm room parties at 2 am and presiding over fines and conduct disputes, while also trying to structure his thesis and run classes. So when the contract and semester were up, he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Consequently, when he’d answered an advertisement pinned to the board on a coffee-shop wall, found out the apartment was on the same block and viewed it within an hour, he'd overlooked the peeling beams, stained ceilings and basic kitchen that hadn’t seen a coat of paint since Bill and Ted were having excellent adventures. Instead, he'd chosen to note it was homely and tidy, didn’t smell too funky (as long as you quickly shut the door to the cavernous-enough-to-store-bodies hall closet), and though it was on the first floor above an electronics repair store, after dark the street was largely a quiet dead zone. He'd taken the room on the spot despite having only met one of the existing tenants, and moved in the next day.

Two months in and his first assessment had proven correct. Jensen - the younger of his two housemates - made sure the place was, if not fastidiously clean, ordered and free of the clutter of ubiquitous emptied bottles or the takeaway cups he seemed to have in his hand whenever he walked in the door, presumably a consequence of working in the cafe Misha had been sitting in that fateful afternoon. Rob, the one he hadn’t met at first, was likewise neat and happy-go-lucky if a little jittery at times. When he was stoned was prone to scrubbing down the bathroom or kitchen at any time of the day or night, but since Misha benefited he couldn’t find a reason to be concerned. He still wasn’t exactly sure what Rob did: he knew he played gigs regularly, often but not always with Jensen, but when he was at home it never seemed to be in anything resembling a schedule. Misha had never received more than vague “this 'n' that” answers out of him and didn’t like to pry further. Jensen, on the other hand, was in his senior year and seemed to be happily coasting between his job, occasional classes, and wherever he and Rob went with their guitars in hand.

So far, it was exactly what he wanted: predictable and easy, with no pressure to be socially engaged even though Rob and Jensen’s living room sometimes seemed to be a magnet for their friends to congregate. He was welcomed unconditionally, left alone when he wanted to be and given a beer and a place on the couch when he didn’t, and at first glance he really couldn’t fault his living arrangement.

There was just _one_ thing. Alright, two things, but...

First, there was the cuddling. And the whispering. And the conspiratorial smiles and face touching.

It all made him feel like an intruder or peeping tom, even though there had been no explicit confirmation his housemates were in any shape or form a couple. In fact, Rob had a girlfriend, he knew that for sure. Misha was usually the first in the house to rise, but several times he’d woken up to find her already in the kitchen making coffee. Plus there were nights Rob didn’t come home at all leaving Jensen the only occupant to stumble out bleary eyed in the morning while Misha puttered around.

And that’s where it became a _whole_ other kettle of awkward.  Because Jensen himself was thing number two.

He _did_ things to Misha, both by virtue of existing and via the mixed signals he got from the green eyes that would slide intently over him only to look away when caught. It was one thing to frequently find your otherwise platonic roommates on the couch using each other as pillows or wrapped in a blanket, but it was another when one of the aforementioned gave you the impression in those moments he resented your presence, while in others looked at you like he wanted to peel your clothes off in a way that had the potential to make your brain leak out your ears. Most of the time though Misha had written the latter off, as he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t simply his own flushed, wistful projections. Generally, he felt like socially-anxious-but-innocuous wallpaper, with Jensen's attention focused almost exclusively on the other man. Attention that apparently turned Rob into an affable snugglebunny, when otherwise he was not...

...a bit like Jensen's stare turned Misha incredibly gay when he was otherwise _not._  

Okay, so he'd fooled around. There was that virginal fumbling with a friend at summer camp when he'd just turned fifteen, and there'd been a couple of gatherings that turned a little orgytastic at a certain hour and level of intoxication when mouths and hands are all readily received in the dark irrespective of to whom they belong. It _was_ college after all.

Just like he'd always chalked up the skinny-dipping incident in his junior year to a well rounded higher education. He hadn't even been that high at the lake party when he and the other kid - just a freshman - found themselves the last two remaining in the water, whereupon the sandy-haired teen had cornered him behind a rock and asked  — _begged_ to suck him off.  He'd not known why he said yes (the begging, probably) but the memory of dusting his fingertips along the heart-shaped jaw as, just above the waterline, his cock slid in and out of the guy's mouth to balloon his cheek had provided an investment in the spank bank yielding a surprisingly good return.

But he'd never _crushed_ on a guy before.

He was not quite ready to delve too deeply into the existential implications this realization threw up, despite it probably being critically relevant. Nonetheless, he didn't know any other way of describing why he kept trying to place himself in Jensen's path just so those eyes fell on him, or daydreaming at his desk imagining witty openings to conversations they'd never had. Or lying in bed thinking about that opulent mouth skimming his ribs on its way down to— in fact, now that he thought about, Jensen's hair and face shape were very similar to anonymous blowjob kid and _fuck_ he had to stamp out that thought before it completely transposed with the memory and oops _…_ too late.

Maybe, it was Jensen. After all, Misha had witnessed other visitors to the house act abashed and tongue-tied around him. There was Rob's friend Matt for instance: a warm young man with large soulful eyes and a timid grin, who sometimes turned quiet and flustered when left in a room with Jensen. Even Rob’s girlfriend Melanie, a cheerful but business-like store manager with wavy caramel hair seemed to flounder around him, the lines of her body and the breadth of her smile becoming hesitant and kittenish. And if anything, Misha reasoned, shouldn't she be jealous? Or...Rob should. _It was all so confusing._

Misha stared at the uneasy stain that bloomed on the ceiling above his bed, the edges appearing to dance in time with the dull drumbeat of a growing headache. A restless heat crept from his lower back up to his neck, and he struggled to pull his muscles into a configuration where they would relax as his turbid thoughts turned opaque and wandered into uncharted territory.

 _Maybe_ Jensen could be some kind of witch, he began to muse, almost deliriously. Or an incubus type creature casting an enchantment over the house’s inhabitants, hypnotizing with that intense but artless stare and leaving them overturned and infatuated. It would explain why Jensen was almost preternaturally attractive, his charmingly impossible blend of refined and masculine features shifting easily between angelic and hot-blooded, or from coy to rakish no matter the context. By contrast, Jensen was hardly a proficient flirter. He was (when not burning holes in Misha with his eyes) easy and engaging in a quiet way, but he was far from outgoing, with an air of awkwardness in himself out of step with the lithe and athletic elegance he moved around with. At times, he seemed shy to the point of demure in ways Misha himself was not, despite his own incompetent and graceless repartee; he’d quickly noticed how Jensen furtively scanned for social clues in a way he recognized since he was intimately familiar with performing the same actions. But then others Jensen owned the room like he often knew he was the understated center of attention, though Misha had to admit he might be projecting that last part.  It occurred to him Jensen tried too hard, like he was playing a part and merely acting disarmingly… human. But even that notion was somehow endearing, like it was a quality specifically aimed at Misha's curiosity, set to pull at the silken threads in his brain like a fly landing deliberately in his web in order to lure him out only to find that the fly was actually a predator poisoning him with concupiscent venom spreading under his skin like hot oil and _Oh God he might actually be going to die._

The heat reached his cheeks, making his ears itch. Stretching the neckline of his t-shirt to one side, he peered along his clavicle to see if there was a bruise to accompany the dull ache there, then tossed the book he'd been successfully not reading for the last half hour onto the comforter near his knees. Evicting the ridiculous B-movie horror images from his head he instead replayed their last interaction, the one which had sent him scurrying into his room, painfully banging his shoulder on the door jamb in his haste to retreat.

He’d spent the afternoon on campus (because his Sunday’s were just that sad), skipped dinner and arrived home late from the library to find a half-empty bottle of tequila on the coffee table next to where his roommates sat on the couch attempting to catch popcorn in their mouths. The picture was not particularly unusual, other than the method they were using to launch the popcorn _at each other_ was by holding it between pursed lips and puffing air for propulsion. Furthermore, they’d arranged themselves face to face with legs entwined, but leaning back to the point they'd had to hold hands in a kind of double cantilever designed to propel the ammunition on the optimal trajectory.

It had looked like some bizarre and indecipherable mating ceremony. He was still uncertain that maybe it _was._

At the time he'd murmured a tepid greeting and scurried down the hall to dump his satchel inside the door to his room before veering into the bathroom. As he'd relieved himself, Misha had tried not to dwell on the way the laughter had died on Jensen’s pouted lips as soon as he'd entered, or how Jensen’s malignant stare had followed him across the room. But then, when he’d roughly pulled open the bathroom door and barreled out, Jensen had been _right there,_ leaving them both suspended in a state of too-close in the hallway while the opening bars of a sultry guitar riff echoed from the living area.

Jensen had lifted his hands in peaceful defense but hadn’t given an inch. “Whoa, hey,” he’d said as Misha had tried to take a casual step back, keeping his eye-line low and out of the tractor beam of his roommate’s.

“Sorry.”

“In a hurry to leave the john? That’s...ominous. I hope you sprayed, buddy.”

“What—?” he’d asked, frowning an automatic glance and _uh-oh_ then he was locked in. “No, I didn’t...uh—”

He’d been distracted by the humiliation of standing there discussing his hypothetical bowel movements even as Jensen’s eyes dropped to roam from his shoulders down to his scuffed shoes and back again. “Sorry, just...didn’t notice you,” he'd added in a mumble.

Jensen had hummed scornfully like he'd known being unnoticed by Misha was most definitely not the issue. Unfortunately, this had caused the obstinacy in Misha’s fucked up potpourri personality to throw a challenging look right into Jensen’s eyes, which was a monumental mistake because after the initial blaze in the green ones meeting it, the flaxen lashes had modestly fallen towards his delicate cheekbones, fluttering there. At this point it was all Misha could do to not raise a hand to brush along the slope, his fingertips prickling with impatient pins and needles. “Uh, I have to study,” he’d said stupidly, turning to brush past him and dart back into his room, his shoulder glancing off the thick wooden frame as he'd swerved to step over his bag on the floor. He'd shut the door and banged his head against it while the citrusy alcohol from Jensen’s breath still circulated in his nostrils.

 

Turning the incident over in his mind, he masochistically dissected his shortcomings and missteps further. _Why had he not flirted back?_ Did he even want to flirt back? Was Jensen even flirting? He’d certainly been teasing, _knowing -_ all up in Misha’s personal space with an irrefutably impish glint in his eyes that had Misha’s stomach still swooping acrobatically remembering it.

And that was new. Both the teasing and the swooping. But he didn't trust it at all, given the likelihood it was all some cosmic joke at his expense. Or, to his mortification, Jensen calling his bluff because he'd seen right through Misha's treasonous thoughts.

What Misha did know, was that he was fucked. And he had no clue what to do about it. He needed help, and there was only one person to whom he’d ever in a million years talk about this.  

He reached to retrieve his phone from the bedside and opened a new message to his best friend.

 

He’d met Felicia on his first day as an undergrad, waiting in a line for watery margaritas at some unofficial orientation soiree. They’d bonded instantly over 80’s Sci-fi (she’d been wearing a Buck Rogers t-shirt) and then discovered they shared the unique trauma resulting from unconventional childhoods and eccentric mothers.  She was bright, kind and mischievous, and saw right through the bullshit facade covering his wide-eyed freshman insecurities. He’d also met Alex the same night, and on many an occasion since played 'what if' Felicia had been the friend he'd eventually hooked up with instead, falling into a relationship after several years of skirting it. But then he and Alex had only found out after moving in together that they really _really_ should have stayed just friends, and now they were lost to each other. Unlike Felicia though, Alex had never known how to call him out on being an asshole, or turned a gentle mirror on his neuroses. She’d glossed over them impatiently, or ‘managed’ him whilst assembling a silent intolerance of them instead.

Misha looked at the blank screen, unsure how to broach the subject. In the end, he decided on sideways. With alcohol.

Felicia had come up with their code phrase for hanging out due to Misha’s willingness to indulge her penchant for cheap bubbles, and his tipsy and terrible attempts at accents which always came out vaguely Russian.

His phone buzzed with a reply almost immediately.

Misha sighed, then disclosed his motivation.

 

 

He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, having fretful second thoughts already.

 

Groaning loudly, he punched out a 'Fuck You',then received a couple of kiss emoji as a return gift.

 

He tossed his phone next to the forlorn textbook and ran a hand through his hair, taking his frustration out on his scalp with a harsh tug of the tufts between his fingers. Realizing the music from the lounge had ceased also meant he could hear his stomach rumbling and that he wouldn’t be able to sleep without procuring something for it to digest, he decided to risk a trip to the kitchen.

Which turned out to be yet another error, because although he scooted around the corner as fast as he could it was not quick enough to avoid the sight of Jensen bent over Rob’s prone body on the couch, dropping a blanket over his length and a lingering hand to his hair before straightening and flicking out the standing lamp. Misha leaned against a cupboard and belatedly noticed he’d forgotten to reach for the light-switch in his hurry to disappear into the room. He held his breath, fervently hoping _please don’t come in here don’t come in here_ to the pitted linoleum under his threadbare socks until he was interrupted by Jensen appearing, hovering for a moment in the pool of light from the hall.

Misha spun away, trying to not look like he’d been standing there in the gloom doing nothing but hiding. He reached for the kettle, only for the steel lid to bounce noisily on the benchtop as it slipped from his fingers. Wincing, he filled it at the tap, startling as he caught Jensen just out of his field of vision leaning with arms expectantly folded to his left, right in front of the kettle plate. The guy was like a freaking cat, sneaking around and putting himself right in the most inconvenient spot. _Maybe he’s looking to be petted_ Misha’s traitorous imagination supplied.

“Hey, Butterfingers. Keep it down,” Jensen teased with a sly half-grin.

“Sorry,” Misha replied absently, steeling himself to step back to Jensen’s side to place the appliance on its base. “Uh, you want a drink? Tea? Cocoa? I’m about to make a sandwich if you want—” He trailed off, and reprimanded himself for babbling while fitting the kettle with a clunk. Then he turned to mirror the other man’s pose, elbow to elbow.

“In the dark?” Jensen stated the obvious, briefly raising an eyebrow. “Naw, I’m good. Don’t want to dilute my buzz.”

 _Right, so he’s only in here to torture me then._ “What was the occasion?” Misha asked, simply because it was the first thing to come into his head.

“Does tequila require an occasion?”

Misha shrugged as casually as he could, increasingly irritated, mostly at himself. “Guess not.”

“Seems to have been too much for the big guy though,” Jensen observed, nodding towards the living room. “Anyway, night,” he finished abruptly, pushing off from his heel to leave, bumping against Misha’s still tender shoulder in the process, like he couldn’t get out of the room fast enough.

“Night,” Misha echoed as Jensen’s back disappeared through the doorway, leaving him with another case of whiplash and where they'd touched smarting. The hot itch suddenly jumped to his nose and he sneezed, his head swimming for a moment.

Maybe he was allergic, he brooded. Could you be allergic to a person? But that didn't explain the almost gravitational pull.

And what was with the ‘Big Guy’ anyway? He’d never heard that before, and Rob was nearly a head shorter than both of them and _Oh God_ was that a penis reference?

Suddenly his was hit with a large dose of annoyance cut with clarity over the entire, patently ridiculous infatuation. It had gone Too Far.

He just needed to mind his own business, ignore his oddly affectionate roomies, and shut his stupid self-aggrandizing hormones the fuck down.  Or redirect them - maybe he needed a few one night stands or something, he thought with lukewarm enthusiasm.

The kettle bubbling behind his back together with his stomach trying to eat itself reminded him where he was. Ten minutes later, he was back in his room with a fresh chamomile tea, a plate full of grilled cheese and a sincere promise to himself he wasn't going to wait for advice. The only sane course was to write off this preoccupation off as nothing more than an inconvenient anomaly.

 

 

That promise incurred its first rigorous test in the morning when Jensen shuffled into the kitchen where Misha was - again - waiting for his close companion the kettle. His roommate wore only a worn pair of pale blue sweats and paused hesitantly in the doorway to eye Misha before continuing into the room, padding between the refrigerator and the cupboard where they kept their few items of glassware.

Misha frantically employed a new tactic, shouting irrelevant details in his head to drown out the part of his big brain that wanted to calculate the exact curve of Jensen’s back as a mathematical equation, or ponder how those cute puffy nipples would respond when rolled between his lips, before it could send troublesome messages to his lower brain. He’d made his way through listing all the presidents in order up to the civil war before he realized Jensen had turned and spoken to him.

“Pardon?” he said belatedly, looking over his shoulder.

Jensen’s lips curled. “You had your thinking face on. Must have been important.”

“My— what?”

“Nevermind. I asked if you’d seen Robbie this morning.”

“Oh!” Misha cottoned on and concentrated on avoiding watching Jensen’s adam’s apple bob as he swilled an orange juice. “No, I haven’t. Have you?” he added. _Duh, he wouldn’t have asked, moron._

Jensen’s brows pulled together. “He was gone when I woke up. Which is, I dunno...weird.”

Misha had no answer to the ambiguous observation, so he asked a question, nodding to the glass in Jensen’s hand. “Want something stronger? I can put a brew on.” His eyes drifted from the fingers lacing around the glass along the bones in his wrist to his elbow, noting the freckle constellations along the way. _JOHNSON...GRANT...GARFIELD...NO, HAYES...GARFIELD—_

“Think I'll get one at work, I have a shift in thirty. Thanks though,” Jensen replied, then moved forward to stand at Misha’s side and place his glass in the sink, the shaft of sunlight from the window catching the hairs dusting his forearm like gold gossamer. _ARTHUR...Uh, CLEVELAND...HARRISON—_ “How’s your day shaping up?” the other man added, uncharacteristically conversational.

“Um...I have a tutorial to take, then I...I have a date this afternoon.” Misha grimaced, not entirely sure why he phrased it that way.

“Good for you.” Jensen turned to face him, added with a mirthless twist in his lips, “I was beginning to think you were a monk.” 

“A friend. A date, with, um... a friend,” Misha blurted like he’d been given truth serum. “But I have no monastic aspirations.”

Jensen seemed to loom over him, even though Misha would have sworn he’d not moved an inch. “If you say so,” he stage-whispered, dawdling his eyes to Misha’s mouth.

_MCKINLEY! …   …  ... ROOSEVELT!!—_

“Right, time to get my ass into gear,” Jensen declared, then breezed out of the room like he’d never been there at all.

_TAFT!....TAFT!!_

_Fuck._ Misha breathed an audible sigh of relief.

 _Well, that wasn’t so hard_ he attempted to convince himself, ignoring the searing blush that rose from his neck to his hairline, and the way the oxygen in the air seemed to only return in retaliation to his housemate’s absence.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Misha was able to keep up the delusion that willpower was, if not his friend, at least a bribable ally until an hour into his ‘date’ with Felicia. Up to that point he’d managed to avoid the subject of what had brought him there altogether, happily catching up on his friend’s latest efforts on her road to eventual global media domination instead. It helped they were working through the bottle of sugary sparkling pink wine he’d procured for the occasion during the short journey from the social sciences building to her tiny student apartment.

Once he began to relax - due to the company as much as the alcohol - he soon knew he was delaying the inevitable. It was, after all, an approach to life he was good at, and one his friend was perfectly aware of. In fact, given the way she was casting him sidelong scrutinizing glances, she was probably plotting the perfect moment and state of inebriation to ambush him.

The wine, however, was not agreeing with him. It seemed to ferment on his tongue and coat the back of his mouth like cough syrup, until he reached a stage where he didn't think he could endure another mouthful. “This truly is disgusting,” he finally declared with a scowl, folding his lips against the taste. “You know wine should get better the further into the bottle you go, right?”

“You may have brought it, but no one said you had to drink it!” she argued, taking a long elegant sip from the chipped chunky mug in her hand.

“I feel like being _not_ sober,” Misha qualified, his accompanying shrug despondent. At the back of his mind he knew he probably shouldn’t be drinking at all. Another dull headache had crept up on him during the day and he felt lethargic and clammy, like he might be coming down with something. But he also wanted to escape the ill-fitting, jittery feeling he’d been living with for weeks now. The feeling he was a strung bow being gradually being drawn tight.

“There’s half a bottle of bourbon above the microwave,” she said, as if suddenly remembering. “I don’t have a mixer though.”

“Oh thank fuck,” he replied with feeling, not that bourbon with or without anything would be his preference under any normal circumstance. But beggars can't be choosers, and his taste buds were begging to be rescued.

Misha heaved himself out of the low sofa and made his way to the kitchen, avoiding the gadgets and cords taking up most of the floor space. He dumped the last of the horrible liquid in the sink and rummaged for ice, pouring himself a generous replacement and topping it with a touch of water to take out the heat. Resuming his seat, he took a long swig and savored the cool burn. “Ahh,” he sighed in relief, then added “no offense.”

“None taken,” his friend chimed. She shuffled cross legged in her seat and raised one crafted brow. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s troubling your beautiful mind?”

Misha’s gut twisted apprehensively, his features following suit as he thought about where to begin.  
He’d arrived thinking that he didn’t need to bring the subject up because he was determined to let it die a quick and painless death. But now, with a large glass of alcohol (no matter how horrible) in his stomach, he found the prospect of talking about Jensen made his insides bubble with pleasure as much as reluctance, and with that he realized he was as fucked as he ever was.

“It must really be serious,” Felicia noted, “judging by the look on your face.”

“What? Oh—” He nestled back in his seat and searched the ice sloshing in his glass for encouragement.

“So…?” she prompted, pursing her mouth and dragging out the single syllable in a pretense of patience.

Misha took a large breath. “Well you were kind of right. I have… I met someone.”

“...and…?”

“Like I said, it's complicated. I don’t know where to start,” he admitted. “I— it’s just a stupid crush,” he blurted out, adding sorely, “but I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Why is it complicated? Start with something simple, like: how did you meet? Or what’s her name?”

He wrinkled his nose. “It’s Jen—” He briefly debated leaving it ambiguous, “—uh, Jensen.”

Felicia all but spluttered into her drink like they were in a scene from a sit-com. He would have laughed if he wasn’t experiencing acute misgivings at revealing himself. Saying Jensen’s name out loud substantiated his futile desires, both painfully and comically.

“Hold the fucking phone!” she squeaked, terrifying him for an instant; she seldom swore. “You’re crushing on your roommate? Who has a _penis_?”

“I’m assuming... I haven’t seen it personally,” he deadpanned.

“Wow,” she said unhelpfully, wiping at the corner of her mouth with her sleeve as she gathered herself. “I’m going to get the obligatory best-friend bullshit out of the way. First, you do know the saying ‘Don’t screw the crew' don’t you? And second, how long have you been into guys? Because I feel like this is something I should have noticed in the...” she paused her excited monologue to silently count the tips of her pointed fingers, “...nearly _six_ years I’ve known you.”

“I’m not!” He frowned, his self-awareness adjusting like tectonic plates, shuddering in subterranean realignment. “I mean...I’m not _usually_.”

“Well aren’t you full of surprises,” Felicia returned wondrously, blinking at him for a long moment before cocking her head. “So how is it complicated? Which way does he swing?”

“Fucked if I know,” he grumbled into his glass before draining it to halfway.

“Ah.”

“It’s more than that,” he began, but ran out of words and into the cloud of his thoughts.

His friend looked similarly preoccupied, then abruptly put her drink down. Standing determinedly, Felicia stepped in front of where he sat. “C’mere” she said softly, waving a beckoning palm.

“What?”

“I think you just came out to me, and that deserves a hug,” she explained, matter-of-factly.

“Oh,” he said, grappling for a moment. He lurched upwards, wrapping himself around her small frame to sink into the embrace. Ten seconds was all it took for him to appreciate just how touch starved and edgy he was by how much drained out of him, just from being held. “Thanks, Leese,” he murmured in her ear, relieved of a tension he hadn’t known he carried.

She pulled away with a squeeze of his elbow, then plucked her drink from the floor and flopped down at the other end of the couch he occupied, pulling her knees under her chin. “Okay, let’s start again, because you look all tied up in knots.”

Misha took a deep breath, though this time it was much easier to put out there. “This is all, uh, new to me,” he started haltingly. “I’ve never been attracted to someone— anyone in fact, like this before. And I can’t work out if it’s... real? Or not.”

“Real?” she quizzed.

“I’m not sure if I even like him. Yet whenever he’s around I—” He wriggled in his seat, like he wanted to shed his skin. “I have a physical, um, reaction,” he finished lamely.

“You make it sound like an allergy.”

He huffed. “I’ve wondered,” he admitted, before earnestly peeling more layers from his frustration. “You know me. I don’t do this...this... irrational lusting after a pretty face.” Felicia arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Not that I’m unfamiliar with unrequited ardor,” Misha conceded, rolling his eyes at the memories of crushes he’s developed on unattainable women, including more than one professor - all it took was possession of a towering intellect and an impish smile and he was, if only briefly, hopelessly and rapturously fascinated. “But I don’t know him at all, and he’s so far from ‘my type’ it’s like some trick is being played at my expense. Sure, objectively he’s pleasant to look at, but he’s just there, tormenting me,” he finished feebly.

Felicia studied him from over the rim of her cup before steering away from his light flagellation. “So how does he act around you?”

“Cocky,” he shot back, then amended with “...recently. Or at least he pretends to be. But then other times it’s like he wishes I wasn’t around.”

“Weird.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But sometimes I get this vibe back from him. Like he’s challenging me to, um... make a move, I guess.”

“So, why don’t you?” 

“Because, as you so very diplomatically pointed out, coming on to one’s roommate is not a recipe for a happy home, especially if you don’t know if they even like you as a housemate, let alone a bedmate.”

“Oh.”

“That’s not all,” he blundered on. “Sometimes I think the other two - Jensen and Rob - might already, um, have a thing.”

“Oh!” Felicia echoed, a confused, pained look settling on her features. “Awkward. So, ménage à trois?”

“I”m not dignifying that with a response,” Misha protested, casting her a dark look the joke probably didn’t deserve. He drained his drink, then got up to make another, trying to turn his focus back on the resolution he’d already made and was doggedly going to stick to, for his own precarious sanity. “Anyway,” he announced as he walked back across the room to sit, “it’s all moot; I’m letting it go. I’m just gonna to knuckle down, get this fucking degree finished and move on in a few months,” he finished, sounding as emphatic as he was ever going to get. It was the only practical course of action, as far as he could see.

“Well that’s an anti-climax,” she said, pouting.

Misha’s mouth reluctantly twitched. That was one word for it. “I appreciate the ear though,” he said, rubbing her knee with affection, then attempted to dismiss the subject altogether. “Anyway, how’s your love life? What happened with that Max guy—”

“Eh, it tanked on the third date. He couldn’t handle my awesomeness,” she interrupted, “and I'm not letting your bisexual awakening get away that easily, and nor should you.” She threw a soft look at him which morphed into nonplussed as she appraised him. “Are you seriously not going to do anything? Meesh, how will you _know_ if you do nothing?”

“What is there to do?” he invited, shrugging. “I don't even know if I want anything. I can’t get a handle on the guy. It’s like he rubs me the wrong way, but instead of being irritated, I’m…”

“Intrigued?” his friend supplied. “Horny?” she added with leer, wiggling her socked toes against his thigh.

“Yes. And yes. If you must know.”

“I do,” she said with a firm nod.

“I have jacked-off fantasizing about him blowing me—”

“Whoa there Nelly!" she squeaked. "There is need-to-know and then there’s T-M-I, and we haven’t made it to that portion of the evening yet. Also, eww.” Misha threw her a self-satisfied grin before the crawling itch came right back, freed rather than numbed by the alcohol. So far confiding in his friend hadn’t made his feelings any less insistent.

“Pizza!” Felicia announced brightly, out of the blue. “How does a colon-clogging amount of carbs and cheese sound?”

“It sounds perfect,” he vigorously agreed, relief turning to hunger. He hadn’t had much of an appetite the past few days but he was suddenly ravenous. Felicia reached for her laptop and they haggled over flavors before putting through an order online. His host then topped up their drinks and sank next to him on the couch, leaning into his side and lacing her fingers between his.

“I’ve missed you,” she said. “We haven’t hung out in forever.”

He burrowed his nose into her hair and kissed her head. “Missed you too,” Misha confessed, then waited a few beats while memories flicked through his heart like an old card catalog. “Have you seen _her_ lately?”

“Not a lot. She’s fine. She’s moved on from campus life, with her fancy job and everything. Without you, our worlds don’t collide anymore.”

A wry grunt lodged in his throat. “I think she’d moved on a long time ago, probably even before she and I played house,” he observed, with more scorn than he intended. He bore Alex no ill will, but he allowed himself a few crumbs of resentment now and again.

Felicia squeezed his hand, but didn’t indulge him while he silently went over all the reasons he should be happy to be alone, and why he preferred being autonomous. Eighteen months of living with someone in a slowly disintegrating relationship was enough to show him the advantages of singledom shouldn’t be taken for granted. The reasons he listed in his mind were all honest and sound, but they weren’t numerous enough to mask a small hollow corner behind his ribs.

“So what did you mean by your roomies already having a thing?” his friend interrogated further, maybe to distract him from moping in the past. “I’m intrigued. For science,” she added, her round eyes sparkling.

Misha sighed, resigned. “You’re not going to let this go are you?”

“Nope.”

He ran his free hand self-consciously through his hair.”I’m not sure,” he admitted. “They’re all over each other. But, like...platonically.”

“How does that work? she asked, her tone incredulous. “Like chimpanzees grooming each other or something?”

“Actually, that’s a fair description. There’s a— it’s—” He tried to put his finger on what it was, “—a kind of tenderness there I can’t explain.”

“Huh.”

“I always feel like I’m interrupting something,” he went on. “Especially the way Jensen looks like he wants me to evaporate when I do.”

Felicia giggled. “Maybe he thinks you might be interested in his boyfriend.”

“Oh shit,” he whispered, his eyes widening momentarily before realizing that didn’t explain how he felt under the weight of Jensen’s other, less hostile glances.

She drained her mug and placed it on the table like she would a gavel. “I might have to pay you a visit so I can see this supposed love triangle for myself.”

“For science?”

“Exactly.”

Misha returned her grin. “Actually, that may just help. You can tell me if I’m imagining it all. How about dinner? Thursday?” he suggested.

“Let me check my social calendar,” she said, thumbing through the leaves of an imaginary diary. “I’m free! You’re on.”

“Deal. Now can we talk about something other than my pathetic lack of sex life, gay or otherwise?”

Felicia rolled her eyes, but shifted the conversation to her current research project and whether she thought she could stick out a third degree or should start being a real adult, 'whatever that was.' Then the pizza arrived, and after they demolished their makeshift dinner he came to the realization he hadn’t just been hungry; he was increasingly exhausted as well. After a brief argument about whether he was both sober and sound enough to ride home, he got on his bike and cycled unsteadily the one and a half miles from her address on the edge of campus to his new home.

 

 

 

The next morning he felt so hungover upon waking he wondered how he and his bike ever made it to the loft in one piece. It took a long time to will himself out of bed and make it to the shower, and then, desperate to maintain plausible deniability, made the worst coffee he’d ever had the displeasure of tasting. After being vertical for a mere half hour he crawled back into bed, only to pass out again. When he woke up a second time it was past midday, and the cold sweat and stifling sheet tangled around him clued him in that he was less hungover than he was categorically falling sick with something spectacularly awful. Every square inch of him seemed to chafe and ache when he got up to use the bathroom, and he had to force himself to get a drink of water, gulp down some tylenol and chew through half a slice of toast before shuffling to the couch and collapsing. The house was blessedly empty, and he dozed off halfway through channel surfing only to come to with the less-than-dulcet tones of ‘Dance Moms’ in the background, the mangled remains of toast stuck to his t-shirt and Jensen leaning over the end of the arm of the couch by his feet.

“Shit,” he mumbled blearily, “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Um...I fell asleep,” he replied, demonstrating his talent for stating the glaringly obvious. He sat up then regretted it, first his head swimming, followed by his stomach. He dangled his elbows on his knees and bowed his head until the queasiness dispersed.

“You look like crap,” Jensen remarked helpfully. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Actually, no. Thought I was hungover, but I’m suspicious I’m getting a virus or something.”

“Ah. You taken anything?”

A more acute wave of nausea hit, and he ignored the question to scramble off the couch and dart past Jensen, heading for the bathroom as a precaution. He didn’t throw up, but opted to wait out the roiling waves while leaning his forehead to the cool tile wall above the basin, the morning’s headache re-entering like a marching band on parade.

After a few minutes there was a soft knock on the door. “Misha, you okay in there man?

Taking a long breath, he straightened and pulled the door handle. Jensen stood just outside casually shouldering the jam, but his eyes were searching. “I’m not sure,” Misha answered, barely caring about how pitiful he both looked and sounded. “I’m just gonna...uh—” And then everything went grey, his vision clouding over as gravity rushed in and his equilibrium deserted him.

“Whoa, hey,” he heard down the tunnel from which he emerged, his jaw hooked over Jensen’s shoulder. A palm encircled the back of his neck, and he focused on the thumb pressing behind his ear to help restore himself.

“Uh, what—“

“Dude, you all but passed out,” Jensen said with gentle concern, the hand dropping to his arm combining with another at his hip to hold him steady.

“Sorry,” he managed to say, out of habit.

“You say that a lot,” Jensen observed, eyes marking all the points on Misha’s face. He tried to concentrate on Jensen’s but, so very close, never made it past the arch of his chin and the scar lying there like a fault line. He frowned, wanting to ask how he got it. “C’mon, you better go lay down,” his savior suggested.

“Mmph,” he agreed, resisting the impulse to apologize once more time. With a little effort he stood under his own steam but Jensen prevented him from stepping away, turning with him instead and keeping an arm low across his back. They walked the few feet to Misha’s bedroom door, the hand at his spine hovering until he walked across the room on his own to where the bed waited like a life-raft. Sitting down gingerly, he looked up to see Jensen loitering in the doorway like he wasn’t sure he had permission to enter.

 _Incubus-slash-vampire_ a small voice triumphantly suggested at the rear of his brain as he squirmed under the covers and covered his face with a forearm, thankful the blinds were still shutting out the afternoon light. His level embarrassment was only diluted by the fact he felt like he’d just run a marathon.

“I’ll grab some water, and something for your fever. You’re burning up,” Jensen said from the threshold, and Misha wondered again how he knew. Then he recalled the fingers leaving a cool imprint on the back of his neck. Now that he thought about it, he could still feel it. “Anything else?”

“No. I’m...no,” he stammered. Waiting in the dim room, he pieced together his schedule. His Tuesdays were free from classes so he hadn’t missed anything today, but he was due to help take a tutorial in the morning. Optimistically, he chose not to worry his professor just yet hoping that whatever this was, it would pass quickly.

Sensing someone in the doorway, he peered out from under his arm. Jensen hung there, and cleared his throat clumsily. “You can come in,” Misha said with a thin smile. _Definitely vampire_.

Crossing to his side, Jensen took two capsules from the bottle he’d carried in one hand and held up a glass in the other. “Here, take these,” he commanded.

Misha hoisted himself on one elbow and complied. “Thank you,” he said simply, looking up but uncomfortable at having to be taken care of like this, and by _him_.

“No problem. I’ll come and check on you in a bit, yeah?”

“You should probably keep your distance, in case I’m contagious. I’ll be fine,” he assured, sagging back on his pillow.

“Respectfully, I’m not gonna do that. I’ll come back in a while,” Jensen replied, firm but sympathetic. Even through the drum echoing in his skull and receding tide of nausea, a featherlight flick of want followed his roommate as he crossed to edge of the room and out, leaving the door gently latched and Misha miserable on all counts.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

The next time Misha woke it was to Jensen squatting near the bed, a shadowed face emerging into his view complete with a suffused halo from the hallway light.

“I brought you something,” Jensen explained, hushed but assertive, tipping his head at a bowl and plate waiting on the bedside cabinet. He clicked on the lamp, making Misha blink even in the soft gleam. “You should try and eat a little.”

He peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “What time is it?”

“Nearly eight,” Jensen supplied, reaching to brush a lock of hair from Misha’s forehead. He laid his fingers there for a moment, Misha unable to look away from his concentrated face until the touch withdrew. “There’s fresh water, so have some more of these,” Jensen directed, rattling the pill bottle, “and drink, okay? You’re still too warm.”

He nodded, and then was alone again, Jensen leaving as discreetly as he’d arrived. Arranging himself to sit, he was able to consume two-thirds of the chicken broth and one neatly sliced triangle of toast before he ran out of energy and appetite. However, it soon became evident that a trip to the bathroom was unavoidable, so he gingerly made his way there feeling like every muscle was completing the thirty-foot journey under protest. The relief of an empty bladder gave him enough stamina to give his teeth a quick brush, leaving him feeling halfway human until he made the return journey back to bed.

By the time he drew the covers back over his hips a chill had begun to set in, so he quickly downed two more tablets along with half the refilled glass. Finally, he pulled the comforter up high and curled tightly on his side as the shivering grew more violent.

 

At some point the medication must have broken through the fever and allowed him to fall asleep, because the next time he came to he was sweat-soaked and fighting off a disjointed, surreal dream involving a large cast of characters, among them a chicken dressed as Abraham Lincoln meeting the chopping block, and his best friend from middle school (successfully) teaching a hippopotamus to play a cello. Darius didn’t even know how to play the cello, and he suspected his irrational annoyance at what was the least absurd aspect of the dream was the catalyst for him waking.

Throwing the covers off, he blinked into the dark until he was sure he was back in reality, then leaned for his phone, realizing during his fumbling that at some point his bedside had been cleared of dishes and the light switched off. The screen lit up to tell him it was a little after four, which was probably why he needed another trip to the bathroom. By the time he got back to bed he was shivering and exhausted again, and resigned to the fact he wouldn’t be making it to campus the following day. In case he slept through the morning, he sent an apologetic a text to his professor, then lay awake as the chill took hold, unable to do anything but draw up his knees and ride it out until it ran its course. Eventually he subsided into blissful warmth, then drifted away.

 

He was half awake again when a ‘tap-tap’ sounded at his bedroom door. The room was light and overly warm, so he shoved the covers off his chest and squinted towards the doorway.

Jensen's shoulder nudged through the gap. “Morning,” he said altogether too cheerfully. “How ya feelin’?”

“Um, it’s too early to tell. I just woke up,” Misha answered, self consciously patting at his hair, his arm aching with the simple movement.

“Good. That means you’ve been out for a good thirteen hours.” Jensen walked towards him, carrying another plate and a glass of orange juice.

“Shit,” Misha breathed, disbelieving.

His visitor set the plate down. “I hope you ain’t got anything on today, ‘cause you’re not going anywhere.” The dictatorial phrasing scratched across Misha’s brain like fingernails on a chalkboard despite the warm tone and warmer smile. “I’m about to head out for the lunch shift, then class afterwards. Robbie will check on you, okay? And eat this,” he finished, pointing at the egg nestled in a petite cup alongside buttery toast. “I refrained from cutting you toast soldiers like my Mom would.”

Misha couldn’t help frowning. “You’re looking after me,” he said, inquisitive despite the observation coming out more like an accusation.

Jensen looked abashed, then covered it with a carefully constructed affronted expression. “‘Course, why wouldn’t I?” he accused in return. “I’ll look in on you later, but make sure you rest up. If you get worse, call me. I mean it.”

“Thank you,” Misha reiterated, his eyes followed curiously as Jensen left the room, brusquely this time, save for a quick glance back from the doorway. He was as confused as ever, having trouble reconciling the thoughtful man ministering to his every need with the one who’d for several months either subtly giving him the brush-off or silently taunting him in equal doses.

 

The next several days passed much as the last, bleeding into each other like water colors. Recurring feverish episodes and fitful sleep left him without any appreciation of time, or when day stood next to night. Everything turned blurry and dreamlike.

He couldn’t recall how many times his roommates looked in on him and refreshed his water, or brought him food he usually didn’t finish, or opened a window to let in some air. His world narrowed to his room and bed, the short route to the bathroom, and the sore twinges in his joints and head.

Around midday Thursday the fever finally broke and he was left drained and unsteady, but above all, relieved. Remembering their arrangement, he managed to send Felicia a text to say dinner was not going to happen, and she’d immediately demanded to know if he was okay and properly looking after himself, and that she would take him to see a doctor if necessary. To which he replied it was probably just a flu virus, and his housemates were making sure he didn’t die.

Felicia was unimpressed.

The conversation was enough to wear him, so he dozed lazily for the afternoon in between failed attempts to read. He allowed himself to hope he was through the worst, until around dusk when his sniffly nose thickened to eye-watering congestion and a cough began reverberating in his chest. His desperation to leave the muddy-beige confines of his room overrode any reluctance to further risk exposing the household to infection, so he pulled on a hoodie and socks and resolved to at least make it to the kitchen for a soothing drink before he had to take a rest break.

Misha hesitated in the doorway when he found Jensen already occupied the room, stooped over the stovetop and concentrating on whatever bubbled there. He had to fight the impulse to turn tail and retreat, unsure of how he’d be received being up and about. He felt misplaced; after being thoroughly nursed and seen at his worst over the past two days, Misha had both a new appreciation of and awkward rapport with his distressingly attractive roommate. Despite his fever-fogged brain, he was cognizant enough to already know each left him defenseless in wholly new ways.

Jensen must have sensed him, turning to flash him a slanted grin. “Hey, it walks!”

“With difficulty,” Misha croaked, not sharing the confidence in Jensen’s tone.

“You feel up to eating? I made spaghetti. Nothin’ special.”

He gauged his stomach for a moment before deciding to accept. He needed to not feel like a patient, and this was a start. “Yes, thanks—if there’s enough to go around.”

“Sure. Robbie isn’t getting home ‘til later – he’s got practice – so I doubt he’ll want any,” Jensen shrugged, "but I made enough.”

“If you’re sure, thank you,” Misha reiterated, then blurted the first question that popped into his head. “Band practice? You’re not there? I mean, obviously—“ _duuuh_ “but I thought you played together…”

Jensen’s brows twitched as he sized something in Misha up. “Nah man, his other band.”

“Ah, I didn’t realize—“ he trailed off, fitting pieces together of his housemate’s comings and goings in his head in a way that now made more sense despite the lack of detail in Jensen’s explanation.

“Want anything while you wait?” Jensen asked, bringing him out of his temporary reverie.

“Um, I just came for a drink, something with—“ his throat seized as if on cue and he had to wait to finish his sentence, “—honey. Sorry.”

Jensen looked at him like he was a lost puppy, then crossed his arms. “How about I make you one of my Gran’s specials. Lemon, ginger, honey...whiskey if you want it. The works,” he offered airily. “But only if you promise not to die in the next ten minutes. And stop apologizing for being sick.”

Misha protested automatically, shaking his head and stepping towards the kettle from where he was trying not to look like he’d been leaning against the counter for support. “You’ve already done so mu—“ _cough_ “—ch.”

“Ah-uh,” Jensen interrupted, dismissing him with a shooing motion and turning his advance with a sturdy hand cupping his elbow. “Go and si’down. Or take a nice long shower or something. Relax. I got this.”

A hot shower did sound like a brilliant idea. “You trying to tell me something?” Misha joked, then regretted asking.

“Yep!” Jensen replied, confirming his fear and steering him out the doorway with a soft push at the curve of his back. “Dude, it’s been days.”

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. “Sorry.”

He padded heavily back down the hall with Jensen’s huffed laughter behind him. A clean shirt and sweats revealed themselves in his spartan drawers without extensive rummaging, then he climbed in the tub and turned the shower to as hot as he could stand, scrubbing his sensitized skin until it sang pink and shampooing his hair twice for good measure. Emerging from the bathroom he felt reborn, and almost ready to face Jensen again.

Misha encountered him setting down bowls on the coffee table. “Just in time,” Jensen said, patting the couch beside where he planted himself. “Feel better?”

“Much, thank you,” he replied sheepishly. “Hopefully I’m more socially tolerable too.”

Jensen’s mouth twitched at the corner. “You’re definitely tolerable,” he said with a curious lilt in his voice.

“Good to know,” Misha replied wholeheartedly, sitting down and nestling the wide dinner bowl on his lap.

Jensen picked up the TV remote and skipped through channels until he settled on a basketball game, which Misha feigned being interested in while they both ate. He surprised himself with being properly hungry for the first time all week, the hot, solid meal and newly awakened feeling leaving him sated and loose. On top of the bone-deep weakness, he could curl up and sleep where he sat.

He must have looked as sedated as he felt. “Good?” Jensen asked ambiguously, as he turned to take the near-empty dish from Misha's drooping hold.

“Yes, thanks.”

“You have some color back at last. You had me— us, worried there for a minute.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, without thinking.

“Hey, we had a deal, no more apologizing, remember?” Jensen barked softly, standing up and stepping around Misha's knees. “Need anything else while I’m up?”

Misha risked a smile and reached for the drink Jensen had made for him, still cooling on the coffee table. “You’ve spoiled me enough. I’m fine.”

Jensen paused at the corner of the room. “Spoiling doesn’t come into it. I just don’t want to be responsible for hiding the body if you dropped dead,” he announced with a labored wink that caused Misha’s insides to perform a miniscule flip-flop.

“You sound like you’ve hidden bodies before,” Misha joked, mostly to cover the sudden influx of homo feelings he’d been successfully repressing until he’d been winked at in what had to be the cutest way humanly possible. The remark reminded him of the absurd, sinister fancies his brain conjured a few days before, which he hurriedly blamed on the onset of his fever.

Jensen’s top lip gradually peeled from his teeth in a raptorial smile. It would have been downright creepy if it hadn’t tipped over into a smirk. “Maybe you wouldn’t be my first,” he said, the smile faltering as he met Misha’s eyes.

“Noted,” Misha replied, silently congratulating himself on holding the stare. It was broken only when the third member of their household bundled in the heavy front door, allowing Jensen to slip from the room.

“Hey hey! You back in the land of the living?” Rob asked jovially, pausing to drop his guitar case against the living room wall.

“Provisionally. I’m not committing just yet.” A cough jumped out of his throat to prove the point, and he quickly buried it in the crook of his elbow. “Sorry,” he croaked, once he had it under control.

“I told him he wasn’t allowed to say that anymore,” Jensen said, striding back into the lounge. Hands now empty, he gently ruffled Rob’s hair as he breezed past to reclaim his spot in the hideously khaki velour couch.

Misha fixated on the gesture as the interplay between his housemates took on a different tone. Until recently he would have felt shyly intrusive being a close observer of such casual affection, the kind of which felt very much as if it contained _more_. But hazy thoughts fluttered through his mind; memories he realized, of fingers smoothing away sweat-dampened hair from his forehead, or scratching lightly over his scalp as tufts caught in the webbing of a hand. Jensen’s hand.

The side of Jensen he’d experienced over the past days was of someone with acute caring instincts - unpretentious about intimacy or indignity, despite the slight edge of embarrassment Misha thought he’d detected. It intrigued him more than the sharp green eyes ever had.

The back of his throat tickled, and he spent the next few seconds trying to prevent another hacking outbreak, his neck and forehead feeling flushed again. “...that right, Misha?”

“Um, excuse me?” he asked, realizing he’d missed being addressed by the person about whom his thoughts had wandered off.

“I was just saying I wasn’t sure whether you were more fun when you’re lucid, or when you’re not. But I don’t know if you are yet,” Jensen teased, a crooked grin wavering in one cheek. “Maybe you’ve had enough for one day, buddy.”

Misha looked down at the palm lifting to give his knee a perfunctory pat and puzzled over the somewhat odd accusation, and whether it was mocking or not, albeit gently. “Uh, yeah, I think might— night, guys,” he murmured, feeling out-of-it again despite the afternoon’s upswing. He rose, sweeping up his empty mug and depositing it ruefully in the sink before before seeking the sanctity of his room and settling gratefully into his bed, and a dead sleep.

The next morning, he woke feeling like he’d been hit by a bus all over again, and sullenly nursed a treacherous pool of self-pity that grew along with the one in his lungs. His room seamed airless and dour, and his mouth tasted like wet carpet, but he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed. Just when he began to think he couldn’t hold out on a trip to the bathroom any longer, there was a muted tap at the door before the handle turned.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. You have a visitor,” Jensen announced, pushing the door wide to reveal his best friend standing in the hallway.

“Leese,” he said groggily, propping himself up on one elbow, “what are you doing here?”

Jensen swiveled to let her in the room, but lingered behind. “Well good morning to you too!” she replied cheerily. “I did message you last night, and this morning.”

“Uh—you did?” He pulled his phone from the bedside and squinted at the screen. Sure enough there was a series of texts sent with increasing exasperation from Felicia, alongside a missed call from his professor. He also learned, alarmingly, it was just after eleven. “Sorry,” he added vaguely, the word ending in a wheeze that morphed into a cough akin to that of an eighty-year-old smoker.

“I wanted to make sure you were still alive, which I can see was a valid concern. Oh, and I brought lunch!” she added, holding up a laden brown bag from the bakery across the road. “Or brunch, as the case may be. For everyone,” she added casting a sly grin at Jensen.

A smile broke across his face, before he raised an eyebrow in Misha’s direction. “I like her. How come you haven’t invited her over before,” he demanded playfully.

“Technically I didn’t invite her this time...but— Jensen, this is my friend Felicia. Leese, this is...Jensen.”

“We’ve met,” they chorused in unison, Jensen adding afterwards, “I gotta run - I have an afternoon shift, so I’ll leave you two to it.

“Take a danish!” Felicia invited, holding out the bag.

Jensen looked to deliberate for a moment before moving to examine the contents and picking out a glazed pastry. “Thank you, ma’am,” he told her, oddly formal. “Try to get him out of bed, would you? He’s moping.”

“I’m not moping,” Misha protested quietly, even though he really was. The other two ignored him regardless.

“Will do. And thank you! For taking such good care of him.”

Jensen canted his head, a studied look occupying his features before being perforated by dimples. “Of course. And nice to meet you,” he smiled, then turned to leave.

“Oh. Em. Gee,” Felicia gasped, after monitoring Jensen’s exit. She turned back to Misha, her eyes like saucers. “You said he was cute, but I had no idea!”

“Shhhh! Geez Leese, keep it down!”

“Given how smitten you sounded I thought the sun must shine out of his ass, and I’m beginning to think that may, in fact, be true,” his ‘friend’ barrelled on.

“Uuggghhh,” he moaned, rolling back on his pillow hoping fervently his roommate had been out of earshot, and pausing to wonder if dying from embarrassment had ever actually appeared on a death certificate.

“Anyway, since his ass has left the room, let’s get some real sunlight in here.” Felicia circled the end of the bed and unceremoniously hoisted the blind, instantly bathing his bed in white.

“I love you, but you’re a menace,” he said, hiding his eyes under a forearm.

“You love me because I’m a menace,” she amended. “Now if you work on achieving verticality, I’ll go find make some coffee while you have a shower.”

“Tea, please. With honey. And I don’t need a shower yet.”

“I beg to differ,” she argued with a glare. “You’ll feel better for one.”

“Okay,” he conceded as she floated across the room, adding “bossy britches,” under his breath.

“I heard that!”

“Good!” he barked, spurring another cough he tried to get under control as he rolled out of bed, grabbed a clean tee and headed for the bathroom. His friend was right - he felt awake for the hot water pounding on his shoulders, and the steam helped clear some of the congestion, if only temporarily.

Emerging into the living area he found Felicia seated at the breakfast counter. She sipped daintily at a mug while another waited to her left, next to a plated pile of muffins and flaking pastries. “You weren’t kidding about feeding everyone,” he observed, announcing his arrival and distracting her from her phone.

She looked up and fixed him with her large eyes. “Well, thanks to you evading my texts I was essentially turning up unannounced. I thought it was only polite.”

“Good call. And sorry, by the way. About ignoring you. Nothing personal,” he smiled, taking the stool next to her and curling his fingers round the mug.

“Apology accepted. Anyway, I had ulterior motives. Since I had to forgo your magnificent chef skills—” Misha made an unhappy growl; his repertoire may be limited, but he was not _that_ bad “—I wanted to check up on you. And by that, I mean finally see where you lived and closely inspect your roomies in their natural habitat.” She blinked over the rim of her cup, mustering half-hearted innocence. “I met Rob too,” she added, “he was on his way out with Mr. Dimples.”

Misha rolled his eyes at the descriptive moniker, in no small part due to his own (still thoroughly unwanted) appreciation of the feature that accompanied a variety of his roommate’s expressions. “So, what did you think?” he probed, curiosity overriding a brief internal struggle to appear blasé.

“About Jensen? Them both?” Misha shrugged, and she continued. “I didn’t get any subtext. Between them, I mean,” she said thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I dunno what to think about that anymore. Except that I’m obviously missing something.”

Felicia hummed in agreement, though he suspected it was less in sympathy than commentary on how obtuse he was. “Jensen though, he’s hard to get a read on,” she went on, her brows pinching together. “He’s very sweet, but he has this low-key intense thing. Like, he’s Mr. Easy-going on the surface, but underneath he’s thinking of ten different things to say before he picks one.”

It was Misha’s turn to frown. “Calculating?”

“No, not like, sinister. More just... deliberate. It’s difficult for me to put my finger on.”

“I know what you mean about reading him,” Misha agreed dryly. “I feel like I don’t have a handle on him at all, and I’ve lived with him for months now.”

She grinned at him. “That pisses you off.”

“Fuck yes,” he griped, swiping at a muffin and peeled away the wrapper. He could really only be tempted to pick at it, his appetite remaining petulant.

“I think he likes you,” Felicia remarked slyly as he plucked a blueberry from the cake in his hand. He popped it slowly between his lips, trying not to give away the fact his stomach just fluttered.

“How so?”

“Just a feeling,” she replied infuriatingly. He fixed her with a stare as if he could gain more clues from her face.

However, she gave nothing away. “Anyway, I’m not interested,” he eventually responded flatly, then drained his cup in one long repression-fueled draft.

It was his friend’s turn to eye-roll. “Yeah you keep telling yourself that, Meesh.”

Misha sat and sifted through his emotions about the notion, deciding they were too messy and indistinct. And new. “I’m not sure I’d know what to do with him if I had him,” he brooded. It was probably the most honest he’d been with himself in weeks.

Felicia looked puzzled. “Everyone has the same face parts...and boy parts you’re acquainted with already,” she said, waving in the general direction of his lap.

“Helpful, thank you,” he answered drolly.

“That’s why I’m here!”

He prised another blueberry from the muffin he was massacring rather than eating. “Even hypothetically, if you're right, I’m not sure I’m ready for anything —complicated.”

“So keep it fun and uncomplicated.”

Misha looked her in the eye. “I don’t know if I can do that,” he said, the truth of it unfurling like the slow curl of steam from his mug of tea. “I mean, I’ve tried. But I fall too easily.” He sighed, once again trying to quell the colliding tides of pasts and present. 

His friend reached out, unfolding her long fingers over his knee. “Just keep an open mind, okay?" she urged brightly. "Promise me.”

He nodded, but he wasn’t sure of his promises had ever been good for anything.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! A close family bereavement and Gishweek really dented my schedule.

 

Once Felicia had cleared away the crumbs from his half-hearted attempt at lunch she all but manhandled him out the door, coaxing him arm-in-arm up the block to where there was a small park on a vacant corner lot. Every part of him ached but it felt good to be out in the air, spending an hour marinading in the spring sunshine. By the time they made it home again he was queasy and breathless from the exertion and collapsed on the couch as soon as they set foot inside.

She insisted on changing his bed linen before letting him lie down, commandeered his house key, and left to get him some aggressively nutritious, rejuvenating concoction from the hipster (though Jensen would argue otherwise) bakehouse and cafe where his roommate was halfway through his shift. Misha, soothed between fresh smooth sheets, theorized the diversion was so she could further spy on Jensen while handing out more orders concerning his invalid self.

After finally leaving him with a sipper full of what resembled composting sludge (marginally redeemed by its flavor) he remembered to call back his professor, who upon hearing him wheeze and cough throughout the brief conversation told Misha he wouldn’t expect him before middle of the next week. Then he took a nap he was all but powerless to prevent.

He didn’t wake up again until he heard the apartment door thud shut, heralding the return of Jensen who pushed into his room carrying a large bag of steaming takeout. Misha was irrationally pleased to be able to smell it through his stuffy nose, his stomach even responding with an enthusiastic growl.

“Dinner,” Jensen said economically, holding up the bulging plastic.

Misha scrubbed fingers over his face, unable to remember the last time he’d looked in a mirror. “Uh, hey," he began, voice sleep-hoarse on top of his croaky throat. “I didn’t realize the time. And thank you, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I did. Your friend was quite specific with her commands. Is she always that bossy?” Jensen asked with slanted grin.

“Ugh," he moaned, "Sorry. And no, not usually. She is protective, though.” His explanation didn’t begin to cover how deviously generous and custodial his best friend could be. Not to mention devious.

“No harm, no foul,” Jensen replied before putting Misha’s brain into a spin, declaring impassively “I'm good at taking orders." It was only when he backed out of the doorway with a playful flick of his eyebrows that Misha remembered to breathe again, his lungs protesting the inconsistency by setting off several minutes of coughing while he inched his way out of bed.

Finding Jensen in the lounge a few minutes later, the TV humming and the coffee table spread with glistening thai food nestled in styrofoam, he sat down and dished himself a modest helping. “Good?” his roommate asked after a few minutes of silent eating.

Misha hummed, chewing on a mouthful of steamed vegetables. Somehow it was exactly what he was craving when he hadn’t been craving anything, and the spiced heat had the unexpected benefit of decongesting his airways nicely. “Really good,” he affirmed once he’d swallowed. “I’ll give you something for it later, and tell Leese to back off.”

Jensen made a dismissive gesture. “I’ll add it to your tab,” he joked. “And it’s fine,” he added before giving Misha sidelong look. “Have you two ever, you know, had a thing?”

Misha stomach plummeted. _He’s interested in her._

“No...we’ve just been friends a long time. She’s single, as far as I know,” he cautiously added, because he was an _idiot_.

Jensen's gaze clouded and slid downward uncertainly before he flashed Misha with a plastic smile. “Nah, it’s okay. Don’t get me wrong, I like her; she’s sweet, and...uh...cute. But she’s not really my type."

Misha shrugged uneasily. “No problem.” He stabbed at his food, unsure if he was relieved or not, then debated with himself if he’d really fucked that up by essentially offering up his friend. _Coward!_ he thought, _ask him what his type is_ , but Jensen merely nodded - a strangely courteous gesture - before the moment drifted out of reach and they each awkwardly resumed their meal.

Once finished, Jensen scooped up the leftovers and disappeared, leaving Misha alone to continue kicking himself. He reappeared a quarter hour later, freshly washed with spiked wet hair and a change of clothes that included the tightest faded black jeans Misha had ever seen him - or possibly anyone - wear, and he had to sternly train his eyes away. A feat that was particularly difficult when, back turned, Jensen tucked his wallet into his rear pocket and bent to pick up his guitar from the corner of the room, the movement emphasizing the subtle outward curve of his legs and peach of his ass. The resulting coil of lust snapped like a whip, leaving him floundering with the realization he was just ogling the guy who, unprompted, had been nursing him at his most pathetic for days now; Misha considered himself a fairly sexual being (technically in his prime despite the lamentable state of non-affairs) but a fucking perv he was not.

Eyes fixed on a missed bean sprout on the coffee table, he vacantly searched for which president he was up to on his abandoned recital list.

“So, I’ll catch you tomorrow sometime. This gig won’t finish til... late,” Jensen said.

Misha hesitantly met his eyes, coloring at the definite smirk sitting on Jensen’s face. “Um, yeah. Okay. Have a good one,” he offered timidly before he was left alone, as chaotic as ever.

 

 

Saturday followed similarly to the day before. He woke up feeling at death’s door, but gradually felt better through the day until his meager energy reserves hit a mid-afternoon brick wall and he was forced to crash for a while. He didn’t see Jensen until he arrived home from his shift about the time Misha had given up trying to meet his one thousand word a day target, realizing that after putting together about fifty over the course of hour his brain was incapable of more, and he needed a nap.

He was fighting to clear his head again when his door creaked, Jensen’s face emerging out of the shadows through the gap.

“How’s the patient?”

Misha gingerly cleared his throat. “Impatient,” he replied blackly, trying to arrange his back into a position where it didn’t possess a dull ache.

“Well they say misery loves company, so do you want some?”

Misha squinted up at him, caught off guard. “Um, sure.”

Jensen slipped shoulder first into the room, on account of carrying a takeaway cup in each hand. “Brought you somethin’. Thought you might be sick of smoothies, but I know you aren’t the biggest fan of coffee, so it’s a...uh, chai latte,” he said, almost apologetically, “don’t have it if you don’t want it.”

“Thank you, you’re very thoughtful,” he shyly replied, taking the cup from Jensen’s outstretched hand. “And no, sounds perfect.” It did too, milky and sweet. “How did you know I don’t like coffee?” he couldn’t help asking, curiosity catching at the back of his brain.

Jensen pulled out Misha’s desk chair and altogether too gracefully swung over one leg to straddle the seat backwards. “You always make a face when you start drinking one.”

“A face?”

His roommate pulled his features into a kind of beleaguered sneer, dimples puckering in his appled cheeks. “Yeah, a face.”

Misha was sure the expression must look decidedly less charming on himself, though the conclusion was overtaken by the realization Jensen had been taking notes on his extreme indifference to coffee, something he only consumed pharmaceutically. He’d had no clue he was subconsciously broadcasting the fact.

“How was your gig last night?” he asked, deliberately charting a course from his discomfort.

“Good— real good actually. Had a blast. You should come sometime,” Jensen added, throwing him for a loop, that loop throwing him into a lengthy wracking cough.

“Okay. Uh, I’d like to,” he managed eventually. “One day. You know, when I’m not actively dying.”

Jensen eyes had rested on him the whole time, and their weight made Misha itch. “Are you always this melodramatic?” he asked, voice upturned and light in contrast to his gaze.

Misha lifted one brow. “Only when I’m in mortal peril,” he threw back, before gulping at his drink. He held up the cup. “What made you think I wouldn’t like it?”

“I dunno. It’s a little girly.’

“I didn’t know gender politics applied to hot beverages.”

His roommate’s expression turned irritated. “Yeah I’m not sure why I said that. Fighting my upbringing I guess.”

“Mmm? How so?” Misha prompted, his interest piqued.

Jensen sat immobile, picking at the frayed edge of a small rip in his jeans, then looked up. “I need something stronger for that conversation. Lemme get a beer. Want one?”

What he wouldn’t give for a beer. “Want? Yes. But I think I should refrain - might hasten my imminent death,” he quipped, hoping to dilute the dark edge to Jensen’s voice.

He received a tight grin in return as Jensen launched out of the chair. “I hope you’re not always this sensible,” he remarked on his way out.

Misha waited, taking the chance to arrange his pillows so he could sit comfortably. He combed his hair with his fingers, still turning the sentence over in his mind as he watched Jensen's return out of the corner of his eye, two bottles - one already opened - slung from his right hand. He deposited the second on Misha's desk and resumed his unorthodox seat on the chair.

“You know, you are possibly the first person to ever infer I was sensible,” Misha remarked, sipping his tepid drink and mulling over the sudden image of Jensen mounting a horse. He definitely had an air of cowboy about him.

Jensen grinned. “Well I didn’t mean it, if it helps. If you were sensible you probably would have realized you were sick earlier, instead of waiting to faint in my arms in the hall.”

“Jesus,” he groaned, dropping his forehead to the heel of his free hand. “Thanks for reminding me. I thought I’d blocked that out.”

“You’re welcome,” the other man replied with a sinister chuckle, miming a theatrical swoon when Misha looked up to glare at him.

“I'd call you an asshole, but in truth it’s another thing I owe you for.”

Jensen stilled, but the dance in his eyes remained. “Dude, how many times do I have to tell you - no more thanks, no more apologies. We’re cool, okay?”

Misha pulled a face, but nodded his agreement. “So,” he began, conspicuously changing the subject, “what were you going to say that you needed alcohol for? Not that you are under obligation...” he added hurriedly, wary of pushing the tentative communion happening between them.

Jensen made a study of the label on his bottle while his mouth twisted this way and that. “Well, without the benefit of about five more beers, I grew up...uh, conservatively.” He looked up, flicking Misha an oddly apologetic glance. “Not like hell-fire and brimstone, but ya know, everything was very proper, and expectations were high. Including what it meant to be a ‘good’ son —and man,” he added, miming air quotes like the sarcasm dribbled distastefully from his fingertips.

“So, you'd prefer to define ‘good’ for yourself?” Misha prompted, draining the last of the liquid. Jensen threw him a look aimed like a scud missile, and he was left to wonder in the pause that followed exactly what had earned it. He had to drop his gaze under the green scrutiny.

“Don't get me wrong, I love my family and appreciate a lot of what was instilled in me,” Jensen finally began, muted and earnest, “but it took me a couple of years being out of home to lose my self-righteousness, and learn to begin letting the parts of myself be free I'd always pretended weren't there.”

“Would you care to elaborate on those parts?” Misha asked hesitantly, feeling they’d somehow strayed off track and edged close to a precipice, but unable to stop himself probing. 

“Sure, but that takes the mystery out of you finding out for yourself,” Jensen declared, bravado disappearing as his eyes fell and he shifted in his seat.

The admission sent Misha’s mind spinning in multiple directions. On one hand, it was a playful but innocent remark, but Jensen's shrinking reaction to his own words made all the ambiguous possibilities play at his interest.

“Remind me - when I’m better - to stock up on beer then,” Misha remarked, feeling dangerous. “Or more tequila?”

“I’m an equal opportunities guy,” Jensen shrugged, then swallowed a long pull from the bottle. “But a good bourbon and I’m all yours,” he added, meeting Misha’s stare again. However the sour tinge of self-deprecation Misha detected in Jensen's tone checked his budding sportiveness.

“Noted,” Misha replied, breaking their eye contact out of frustration again, both at his inability to read Jensen’s mind, and Jensen’s knack of switching from seemingly genuine and open to putting up a wall, while simultaneously breaking down Misha’s own. He felt he could see when Jensen was just acting whatever role he’d decided to play in the moment and it aggravated him more than it should, and _that_ only aggravated him more. 

“I had the opposite.” he blurted, searching for a topic to disable the mood. “Upbringing, I mean. My parents…encouraged is the wrong word, but they made it clear to us that questioning and breaking the rules was worthy of merit, and that I was the only one who was allowed to define myself.” Misha took a deep breath and smoothed at the sheet resting over his thigh. “No childhood is perfect, I guess,” he added, caught in flood of memories, many of which he’d rather not remember.

“I dunno, sounds pretty awesome to me.”

“To a kid? Yes, but only superficially. I haven’t begun to fully appreciate it until recently. Often it…it just made me feel like the weird kid with the hippie parents who didn’t belong.”

“You’re right,” Jensen said after a moment, soft and solemn, “no childhood is perfect.” Misha risked a look at him, and received a slim smile. “You are a little weird though,” he added playfully, placing a now empty bottle behind him and twisting the top off the second. “I mean, your music taste alone—“

“What about it?” Misha asked suspiciously, secretly racking his brain for how Jensen has even been able to form an opinion.

“You know, when most people want to tune out and blast something alone in their room, it’s not loud-” he paused to wave a hand in the air, “-orchestral stuff.”

“Oh,” he replied, thinking about the times he’s come home from school disenchanted with…well, everything, and lain on his bed in the dark trying to restore his inner tranquility with a piano concerto swimming around him, or let Beethoven’s 5th help draw out his distemper and dash it on his walls, as much of a cliché as that made his angst. “Sorry, have I been too loud?” he asked, slightly stricken.

Jensen chuckled over the mouth of his beer, though Misha wasn’t sure what the joke was. “No, not at all. Just an observation.”

Misha eyed him back warily. “My mother always had music on in the house - all kinds, but often classical - and Dad would often put on a symphony after dinner and retreat into his own world, pretending to conduct. Mom wanted us to learn an instrument. I tried the piano, but I— well, I hated it, to be honest. I have no discernible musical ability. Nor am I in any way knowledgeable, for that matter," he explained. 

He lifted his chin, trying to overwrite the apology in his voice. "But I guess I just…like what I like." he added.  This time, Misha let the blush build from his collarbone all the way to his cheeks as he determinedly scanned Jensen’s face, glancing over the shift in his jaw as his top lip parted almost imperceptibly from the bottom, and the tightness around his eyes relaxing as they widened in barely concealed surprise at Misha’s barefaced attention. It was only the slam of the front door that jarred them out of the silent exchange.

“Hullo hullooo!” called a voice coming closer down the hallway. “Shit sorry man,” Rob said, face appearing at the doorway. “I forgot you might be asleep.”

Misha tore his eyes away from Jensen’s elegant dismount. “S’ok,” he dismissed, waving a hand. Beside the chair Jensen was checking his watch and looking uncharacteristically stiff, flicking at the hem of his shirt and appearing to take a great interest in the floor.

Another face appeared at Rob’s back. “This where the party’s at this evening?” Matt joked.

“Hardly,” Misha argued, reaching for a tissue from the box on the bedside. The sudden gathering in his room and Jensen’s reaction was disconcerting.

“Never mind, you’ll be better in no time with Dr Ackles on the case,” Matt added, casting a grin at the object of his teasing. Misha blew his nose and watched as Jensen’s face screwed into defensive frown, the strange tension emanating from him driving up a notch.

“Time to head out?” said Jensen, looking at Rob in a firm attempt to change the subject. “Dinner first?”

“Actually, we had to cancel the gig,” Rob started. “Rich is sick - food poisoning. Been hugging the bowl all afternoon, so we pulled the pin.”

“What? Shit.”

“Nah, no big deal. It was more of a favor anyway. Scotty has someone to cover.” Misha wondered who Scotty was, or Rich for that matter, painfully aware he was still the freshie in the house and the subtext between the friends still went over his head. “So, we thought we’d just grab some beers and pizza and have a game night in,” Rob continued. “That’s if you don’t mind.”

Three pairs of eyes all settled on him. “Uh, no?” Misha answered hesitantly.

“You sure?” Jensen quizzed. “We don’t wanna, ya know, be obnoxious or anything if you need to rest.”

Misha grew more puzzled, and distrustful that Jensen might be looking for an excuse to leave, which sliced closer than he was prepared for.

“You are welcome to join us, if you’re up to it,” Rob added, looking pointedly at Jensen, then to him.

“Sure, of course.” Jensen’s tone was conciliatory but the lines of his body conveyed what Misha chose to interpret as resentment.

He reacted with a surge of annoyance. He’d thought they were getting along - more than that, in fact, and Jensen’s sudden about face left him embittered in his pile of stale blankets and three day old sweats. “I’d like to, thank you,” he said, unequivocal.

Rob clapped his hands together with unrivalled enthusiasm. “Sweet. Jay, you’re on pizza duty, Matty and I will go on a beer run.”

They turned to leave, Jensen seemingly fixed in place hosting some kind of internal battle. “Right, I’ll leave you to get up,” he said eventually, smoothing a palm behind his neck and starting for the doorway. He paused when he reached it, throwing Misha a wan smile before pulling the door to.

“Right,” Misha echoed to himself.

 

 

Resolutely wearing jeans for the first time in days and after a shower he dragged out on purpose, he wandered into the kitchen banking on caffeine infused with an irresponsible amount of sugar to carry him through until he ate.

He could have sworn the apartment was vacant until he stepped back into the hall with his fingers curled around a full mug of scalding coffee. The muted sounds of a guitar filtered from his right, the demure melody caged behind Jensen’s closed door had freezing Misha on the spot while his ears strained towards the simple chords. There was something familiar and lulling about it he couldn’t put his finger on, and he made a mental note to ask Jensen what it was later on.

The moment shattered when Rob and his friend pushed through the front door carrying several bulging shopping bags. Misha turned in their direction as they dumped their loot on the small square table near the counter no one ever seemed to eat at.

“You’re well stocked,” Misha observed as six-packs, a bottle of whiskey and various packets of snack foods were unloaded.

Rob merely grinned back at him. “Help yourself,” he offered amicably.

“I’ll finish this and think about it,” he returned, lifting his syrupy coffee.

“I’ll take one,” Jensen said from behind him, startling Misha mid-sip and leaving him spluttering. He tried to clear his throat without setting off cough and failed. “You okay there bud?” the cause of his predicament asked, more teasing than concerned. “I didn’t know you had a drinking problem.”

Misha would have rounded on him if it wasn’t for the ineffective smacks between his shoulder blades, the hand issuing them dusting lightly down his spine as it departed, leaving Misha more short of breath that the misplaced swallow had. A thin glare was all he could muster in the moment.

“Pizza’ll be here in about twenty,” Jensen added, reaching for the beer Rob handed him. Matt, having shuffled back and forth to the kitchen filling the fridge and retrieving bowls for corn chips like he lived there, picked up a bottle and twisted off the top. The three of them glanced their drinks together accompanied with a round of “cheers” and a long swig, leaving Misha an observer to the ceremony until Jensen looked his way. 

He delicately tapped the neck of his bottle to the rim of Misha’s mug. “Uh, cheers,” Misha repeated awkwardly, distracted by the grin spreading across Matt’s face.

The dinner was delivered in due course, and though his appetite wasn’t up to more than picking at one greasy slice he joked along with the others as they continued to drink, the conversation mostly revolving around their friends or seemingly inane arguments about music that made him feel like he was watching a real life version of High Fidelity. Jensen stayed unusually subdued throughout until he suggested it was time to clear the table, retrieving a pack of playing cards from the cabinet underneath the television.

“How’re your poker skills?” he asked, offhand in the kind of way Misha felt he now recognized as deliberate.

“Now that would be telling,” he replied archly. It wasn’t a game he’d played more than a handful of times, but he knew enough to bluff from the outset.

“Well, game on I guess. Five card draw?” he proposed, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table from where Misha pulled out a chair, suddenly petrified he was going to make a fool of himself. So worried, in fact, that he accepted the offer of a whiskey when Matt poured for the table.

“Should you—?” Jensen asked with raised brows.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Misha responded, peevish and decidedly ungrateful, which he regretted as soon as Jensen held up his hands in withdrawal. Rob’s face took up an uncharacteristic smirk while Jensen's remained dubious.

In the end he needn’t have worried as Rob proved to be unfairly terrible, though Misha wondered how much of that was attributable the amount of accompanying alcohol. A fresh whiskey was poured with each round, and by the third the previously restrained lines of Jensen's mouth entertained a permanent wisp of amusement. Occasionally their eyes met and lingered, but for the most part, in between concentrating on his cards, the game gave Misha a chance to study him across the rim of his glass while he sipped. He wasn’t getting drunk, but he began feeling too heavy and dull to be sober. 

“Where’s Mel tonight?” Jensen asked Rob, deft fingers flicking cards around to each of them.

“Hen’s night. One of the girls at work - I don’t even wanna know what she’s up to.”

Jensen and Matt both made sniggering noises. “Have you been together long?” Misha interjected, seeing an opportunity.

Rob squinted at his hand, debating between two cards. “Ahh..yeah. Coupla years? We’re not that serious though.”

“Bullshit” Matt coughed into his fist.

“Yeah, tell that to Melanie,” Jensen added, smirking.

“What!” Rob whined defensively, “she’s the one who doesn’t want to get married.”

“She’s got you on a leash though, bud. And you’re as whipped —I mean, _loyal_ as the day is long.”

Misha risked a look at Jensen as Rob made a variety of indignant noises, but saw nothing but amused fondness on his face as he heckled his friend.

“Hey Misha, you seeing anyone?” Matt asked out of the blue, causing the wheels turning frantically in his head to grind to an abrupt halt. There was a thud from under the table followed by Matt taking a pained breath, but Misha was too busy flushing to pay much attention to anything other than the expectant looks leveled at him curdling with the sudden realization that drinking anything at all was a terrible mistake.

“Not right now, no.”

Matt grimaced. “Eesh, bad break up?” And _fuck, was it written all over his face?_

Jensen shot him a disapproving look. “Dude, leave him alone.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to pry,” Matt said, sheepish.

Misha swallowed roughly and shrugged. “It’s been a while, I’m...over it. Just not sure I want to move on yet.” It was the truth, after all.

Jensen’s eyes lowered, his features smoothing to a mask as he studied his hand. Misha hoped the subject would drop if he concentrated on his own, and tried to not steal glances at him from under his brows. The clammy heat he felt under interrogation twined into his stomach, his thoughts dispersing as the red and black began to swim in front of his eyes. He didn’t think he was going to be sick, but he very suddenly needed to not be vertical.

“Uh, guys, I think I need to call it quits.”

“You okay?” he heard Jensen say sharply, his voice dissipated like it came from further than five feet away.

He stood, pushing the chair with the back of his knees, and had to struggle to balance. “Yeah, just need to lie down,” he mumbled.

Jensen rose, taking three short steps to his elbow. “Need a hand?”

“No, ‘m’fine.” He brushed off his roommate’s reaching arm. “Sorry,” he added, then lurched towards his bedroom and the safety of the dark cave of his room.

It took a while of lying flat on his back before the walls stopped closing in, and his bed swaying. Music and the occasional burst of laughter drifted from the lounge and Misha felt a brief pang at missing out, but not enough of one to try standing upright again just yet.

He turned his head when the hall light came on, flooding his open doorway before a shadow loomed. Jensen announced himself with a knock to the frame.

“You alright in here?”

“Have you come to say ‘I told you so’?” Misha asked.

Jensen huffed. “I told you so.”

Misha grunted, aiming for petulant but it came out more like the sound of a dying ungulate.

“Sure you’re okay?" Jensen wandered towards him, his tone terse. “'Cause if you, like, get pneumonia and die on my watch, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

A palm landed on his forehead, cool and dry, and Misha closed his eyes. A thumb brushed over one eyebrow. “I’ll try to keep your reputation intact,” he answered dryly. Jensen pulled his hand away with a discontented noise. “Why are you so moody?” Misha blurted, because maybe we was a little drunk after all.

He fluttered his lashes open, wary of the fallout, but Jensen’s expression looked rueful in the fall of yellow light. The seconds ticked away before he dropped to crouch and responded. “Sorry, the guys have been hassling me about somethin’. I let it get to me.” Misha frowned, but acknowledged the unexpected apology with a nod. “Are you always this stubborn?” Jensen lobbed back.

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation, venturing an experimental roll onto his side so they were face to face, hooking his now chilly feet under the covers. “But I’m not apologizing. Doctor’s orders.”

This time Jensen laughed, a low throaty sound that kindled a smile on Misha’s lips. “Touché,” Jensen smiled back. “Can I get you anything?” he offered.

“No.” Misha coughed, but managed to reign it in. “I’m just gonna pass out. Or die...don’t take it personally.”

Jensen rolled his eyes and launched off his heels. “You feel warm again. Lemme get you some more water anyway," he said, pulling the comforter up to Misha’s hip and collecting the near-empty glass from the bedside.

Misha eyed him leaving, then tracked him across the room when he returned after a minute or so, ice tinkling against the glass. “You’re very frustrating,” Misha sighed as he set it down, because maybe he was in fact less drunk than mildly delirious.

His roommate grinned. “Hey, at least I’m cute, right?” he said. He followed the remark with a bald wink and retreated once again, leaving Misha in a state of blind terror. “G’night,” he added from the doorway before latching Misha in the dark.

“Fuck,” he said aloud to the universe at large.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

Misha woke to rain hammering on the window, his room chilled and dull. Under protest his brain began ticking over, working out what day it was and how long he’d been sick; it was less than a week but it felt like he was stuck in some kind of purgatorial limbo.

He rolled on to his back and tentatively stretched his limbs, the now familiar run-over-by-a-bus feeling surfacing with an side serving of I-regret-all-my-choices. A faint headache rapped against his temple whenever he moved, but he was hungry; possibly hungrier than he’d felt in days. However, obtaining food meant having to assemble himself upright, and he suspected he might have to work up to that small feat of athleticism.

Beginning with a reach for his phone, his eye caught the bottle of Advil standing sentinel beside the lamp. Taking a couple with an eager drink, he settled back against his pillow and swiped at his screen. It was only then, seeing a text from Felicia, that he remembered.

_He knew. He heard. He knows._

“Fuck. Me,” he whispered under his breath.

Dropping the phone to his chest Misha briefly debated the probability he might have to move out, preferably immediately and via the window so he didn’t have to face his roommate again. But then he came to the realization with reasonable surety that Jensen was fucking with him, and he wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about it, because that could mean Jensen  _liked_ the idea that Misha entertained a foolish infatuation, and he could only see two possible explanations for that. The first being that the knowledge fed Jensen’s ego more than it could offend it. And the second... _no, NOPE_ , the second option was not allowed a voice. For now, the only way forward (and not out his second-floor window) was to confidently pretend Jensen had no inkling about his feelings. Failing that, he could endure Jensen making him the butt of a few jokes until they’d moved on and swept this entire episode under the proverbial and tatty carpet.

The small voice of hope tried a different tactic as he retraced their conversation before they were interrupted yesterday, leaping from statement to sentence like stepping-stones over the river of self doubt permanently flowing through his internal dialogue. _But...BUT...there was flirting._ He could be romantically obtuse, but he wasn’t so limited he couldn’t recognize a double entendre thrown his way, especially in conjunction with lashes fanning over eyes dark and fertile with questions.

However his own question remained: what did he even hope for? The feeling was so indistinct, so innominate and nonsensical his reason whited-out under the pressure to perform.

Picking up his phone, he scrunched his chin to peer at the screen and read the text from his friend. Since she was demanding a welfare check, Misha decided it would take less effort to phone her back than thumb out a report on his persistent symptoms.

 _“Morning!_ ” Felicia said as she answered, way too cheerily for a Sunday morning. Or at least his Sunday morning. “ _How are you?_ ”

“Still alive. I think.”

“ _You think?_ ”

“I may have died and gone to hell” he ventured, his untried voice cracking like sea ice.

“ _What now?_ ”

“He heard you, the other day,” He dropped to strained whisper. “He knows I think he’s... attractive!”

“ _Oh, that all?_ ”

“What do you mean ' _is that all_ '!”

“ _Has he gone all no-homo on you?_ ”

“Umm. No?”

“ _Well then!_ ”

“Well then what?”

“ _The ice is broken. You’re welcome._ ”

His brain tried to catch up. “Uh _—_ ”

She sighed, but her voice turned conciliatory. “ _Just be you, and see what happens._ ”

“You still seem to be laboring under the misconception I want something to happen.”

 _“Meesh, being afraid of the thing and not wanting the thing are two different...er, things,_ ” Misha huffed before she accusingly went on, “ _and you, dear friend, will always choose the path less traveled. You may seldom like to, but you seem to need to._ ”

He made a noncommittal grunt, and Felicia moved on like it was all settled.

“ _Emotional baggage aside, how’s the flu?_ ”

“I was a little better. Then there was spontaneous poker and alcohol.”

“ _Huh,” she said, then there was a pause. “I’m wearing my disapproving face when I ask ‘tell me more?_ ’”

Misha attempted to clear his throat. “My living companions’ plans were canceled, so they stayed in and invited me to join the table.” Felicia made a noise equating to enthusiastic interest. “It was fun, but weird.”

“ _Define weird?_ ”

“Just...odd. I suspect I was half guest - half entertainment.” He left it there, deciding not to elaborate on how different Jensen had been yesterday when it was just the two of them. It was as if a switch flipped when the others arrived, and their presence seemed to make Jensen squirm.

The silence on the other end of the line stretched. “ _Still think you’ll be up to dinner by Thursday?_ ” his friend eventually inquired.

“God, I hope so,” he whined, scratching through his hair. He wanted his life back, not to mention badly needing a haircut, the long tufts at the front falling over his eyebrows if he didn’t constantly scrape them away.

“ _Great, if you haven’t made progress by then, I’ll help_ ,” Felicia threatened, making it clear it was an ultimatum.

“Ugh.”

“ _Love you too! Now go make some tea and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You sound terrible._ ”

“What would I do without a friend like you.”

“ _Let's hope we never find out_ ,” she remarked. “ _Later-gator._ ”

“Bye, Leese.”

Taking a deep breath, Misha slid his phone back to the crowded bedside and hauled himself upright to cross the room. The apartment was so settled in quiet he wondered if he was the only one still there, despite it being early. Making a pit stop in the bathroom, he padded to the kitchen and wavered between making tea or a coffee, deciding on the latter when he heard the pipes creak as the shower sprang into life.

  
Feeling more himself with each passing minute, he cleared some of the abandoned remains from the night before still littering the countertops and sink while the machine dripped steadily in the corner. Retrieving a couple of cups from the overhead cupboard, he was pouring one for himself when he heard footfalls halt in the doorway.

He glanced over his shoulder to see Jensen, cheeks flushed and hair glistening from the steam, fixing a smile amongst his uncertain features. “Um, Hi,” his roommate rumbled, finding his voice for what was clearly the first time in the day.

Misha unfurled a tentative smile of his own, taking in the bare feet and sagging tee of the newcomer, still hovering, the twelve foot expanse between them compressing with questions. Misha began with a simple one in the hope it would banish the likelihood of acknowledging their last conversation ever happened. “Coffee?” he suggested, “It’s just brewed.”

“Fuck yes.”

Jensen finally stepped into the room while Misha poured, gliding the filled mug to his left to be claimed. “Milk?”

“Just sugar. Lots of sugar.”

Misha raised an eyebrow and grinned as he skirted Jensen’s back to return the milk to the fridge. “That bad huh?”

“No. Yes. I’ll get back to you after this,” Jensen hedged, lifting the cup to his lips and blowing on the surface before taking an experimental sip; an action Misha tried and failed not to observe as he resumed his place and curled cold fingertips gratefully around his own mug. “You look...better than I expected,” Jensen added, somewhere between resentful and impressed.

“If that’s a compliment, you could use some practice,” Misha replied, impulsively emboldened and teasing in return. He received a fleeting scowl for his trouble. “Somehow I managed to get off lightly,” he observed, surprised the feeling he'd woken up with had largely dissipated. Maybe he was finally on the mend. “Did it turn into a late one?”

“Nah, not really. At least, not once Rob got a booty call from Mel. I told Matt to crash on the couch, but I take it he isn’t here?”

“Oh, I haven’t looked _—_ ”

Jensen took a brief reconnaissance around the corner but came back shaking his head. “Nup, he must have bounced. Just you and me,” he remarked, settling back against the pitted bench.

Feeling Jensen’s sudden scrutiny, Misha dropped his eyes to his drink. “Got plans for today?” he asked, hastily looking for something to say.

Jensen rolled his head back and made a tortured noise. “I have an essay due nine tomorrow, so it’s a sprint to the library and then put my head down for the rest of the day. You?”

Misha thought of the various docs that compiled his work in progress as well as the classes he had to prepare for later in the week, and promptly wanted to go back and hide under his covers. “I should... work,” he replied, vague and despondent at losing a whole week.

“Well, it’s a good day for it. With the rain’n’all.”

“I’m sorry you have to go out in it.”

His roommate downed the remainder of his drink, then shrugged. “It’s my own fault. Should’ve got on to it last week.”

A thought caught Misha out of the blue. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know what you’re studying exactly,” he admitted, horrified he’d committed a faux pas. He had seen his roommate in the vicinity of the humanities building several times, but somehow the subject of exactly what took him to campus on what looked like only a semi-regular basis had never come up.

Jensen, however, didn’t seem in the least offended. “Sports psychology. I originally had physio in mind, but changed tack sophomore year.”

“Oh, how so?”

“Decided I was more into what makes people tick than their mechanics,” He crossed the corner where Misha leaned to rinse his mug, leaving it in the sink. “Still give a mean massage though,” he said, turning to show his mouth quirking shyly to the left.

Misha, gulped down a mouthful of coffee, rattled by the way this information was delivered, devoid of the usual bravado and with a direct stare, brief but long enough to Misha felt floodlit under its attention before it nervously skittered away. “Noted,” he responded lamely.

Jensen looked down, shifting on his feet like he couldn’t decide what to do next. At least that made two of them. “So I...uh, better get going. Need me to pick up anything while I’m out? I might stop at the grocery store”.

“I’d kill for an apple,” Misha said, suddenly craving something fresh and real after days of takeaways and what felt like baby food, adding, “but don’t go out of your way.”

“It’s no trouble,” Jensen argued and turned to leave. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, ‘kay?”

Misha raised his hand in an awkward wave. _This isn’t so bad,_ he told himself once he was properly alone and still not crippled with neither embarrassment or insecurity. _Maybe we can be...friends._

 

 

He kept coming back to the question of whether or not he wanted to be considered as a friend to his vexingly beguiling roommate right through finishing tidying the kitchen, putting on a load of laundry and a nonproductive hour sitting at his desk. The slice of cold pizza he’d decided to call breakfast sat heavily in his stomach, and he'd never been more happy to hear to the low timbre of Jensen’s voice announcing he’d arrived home with a knock on his door and an invitation to peruse his supermarket spoils.

“You got fruit,” Misha observed with unbridled joy at hauling apples out of the grocery bag and finding they were accompanied by boxed green grapes, oranges and kiwi.

“Figured you could use the vitamin C,” Jensen replied, his grin widening to match the one Misha was suddenly aware was plastered across his own face. For a few moments, they seemed frozen there, smiling widely at each other.

“Thank you,” Misha said simply.

“There’s some bagels there, and stuff to put on them. Oh and I got something to cook for dinner,” Jensen added, holding up a whole bagged chicken before sliding it onto the bottom of the refrigerator.

“Will you have time? To cook, I mean.” Misha frowned, Jensen’s generosity again throwing him off kilter.

“Yeah, I can spit this paper out in a few hours. And, maybe we can do it together? Uh, dinner _—_ you ever cooked a roast?”

Misha pursed his lips. “No. Sunday dinner was never a thing in our house. But I’m happy to help, and learn.”

“Great, it’s a date,” Jensen declared, without a hint of irony. He grabbed a bagel from the bag, jamming it ungarnished in his mouth before picking out an apple. “Nose to the grindstone - I’ll catch you later,” he added thickly around a mouthful, before turning and breezing out of the kitchen, leaving Misha standing in the middle of the kitchen awkwardly holding a bag in each hand.

 

Several hours later, the sticky remains of the fruit salad he’d thrown together still sitting near his open laptop with an edifying thousand new words on the screen, the urge to get beyond the walls of the apartment fought with the compulsion to take a nap, and won. Testing his strength, he put on some shoes for only the second time all week - which seemed to be a pitiful yet noteworthy accomplishment - and left his dishes in the sink on the way out, pausing only once to glance at Jensen’s closed door on the way.

Out on the street, he found himself pausing for a deep breath of the air, cleansed from the overnight rain. The sky was slate grey, washing out a lot the colors even on the trees imprisoned in the concrete pavement and holding on to the last of their leaves, but Misha still felt an unexpected sense of freedom at being out of the house. The jubilance might be small and temporary, and hampered by lingering fatigue and the cough that was moving away from the debilitating thick wet one to more dry and irritating, but it was real enough to put a spring in his step. Still, he didn’t want to venture far, and a gentle stroll to the coffee house and genial conversation with the barista was just life-affirming enough to not over-tax is still delicate disposition.

Back at home, he stopped by his room to toe off his shoes and stow his jacket before tapping gently on Jensen’s door. A muffled noise emanated from the other side, which he decided was more likely permission than not. Cracking it open, he saw his roommate in the opposite corner, the light from the desk lamp striking thin halo at the golden tips of his spiky hair, which was currently gripped between frustrated fingers if the hunch in his shoulders was anything to go by. “Everything okay?” Misha tentatively asked, taking a virginal half step into the sparsely decorated long room.

Jensen spun around in his chair, looking somewhat surprised.”Hey! Sorry, I swear I’ve lost a paragraph somewhere or my brain is short-circuiting. I can’t tell anymore.”

“Maybe this will help?” Misha lifted the tall takeaway cup in his right hand. “Uh, it’s just coffee - americano, with two sugars,” he added in response to Jensen’s raised brows. “I hope that’s okay.”

He was left standing like a sculpture, uncomfortably holding the half extended drink while Jensen leaned back in his chair and looked him over. The appraisal probably only lasted a second or two, but it felt like minutes. Tempted to leave the cup on the nearest flat surface and simply flee, he almost jumped when Jensen finally reacted, launching from his seat to meet him with steady rolling strides.

“Dude, you’re a lifesaver,” he said, his voice warm and husky in its abrupt proximity. Jensen scooped the coffee from Misha’s grasp with both hands, his fingers briefly caged by the soft cooler ones taking the cup. Jensen didn’t move before taking a sip. “Mmm, perfect,” he declared, as Misha tried not to notice the purr in his words as his throat bobbed with the swallow.

He failed, fixed to the spot and with no words of his own springing forth. “Wait, did you get this yourself?” Jensen continued.

 _Friends can totally give gifts of strenuously acquired coffee_ , Misha reassured himself, nodding. “I felt like a walk,” he explained dumbly. “I figured it was about time to repay a favor.”

Jensen smiled, the bow of his lips curling slowly towards twin dimples. “Well thanks, I appreciate it. I hope you got something too.”

“Of course,” he lied, baldfaced but quick; concealment might be his forte, but lying was never going to appear on his resume of skills. “Anyway, I’ll let you back to it, finding your missing paragraph, or whatever _—_ ” Misha turned, intending to quit while he was arguably ahead.

“Thanks, and cheers,” Jensen said behind him, “ _—_ for the coffee, and thinking of me.” Misha risked a small smile over his shoulder. “I should be done about...half four?” he added, looking at his watch. “Then we can start dinner, if you’re still up for it?”

“Sure. See you then,” he agreed and closed the door between them.

 

 

Walking into the kitchen after a rejuvenating hour or so with Bach’s cello suites in his headphones and then a selfishly long shower, Misha found Jensen bent in half in front of the oven while setting the dials.

“Just in time,” Jensen remarked, hearing Misha’s steps and standing straight. “Ready to learn all my secrets?”

Misha’s right brow shot skyward. “I thought you were just teaching me to cook.”

Jensen huffed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Guess I walked into that one.” Shrugging casually, Misha tried not to show he’d probably prefer the former option. “So this bird is real simple,” Jensen continued, moving to retrieve the chicken from the fridge. “It’s already basted and in a bag, so we just throw it in when it’s up to temp. But my main question is: have you ever had twice-baked potatoes?”

“I’m going to go with ‘No’?” he answered, not really having any idea.

Jensen rubbed his palms together. “Well alright then, let’s get started.”

The rest of the afternoon warmed into evening even as the rain returned, louder than ever outside. They fell into an easy rhythm of working together: Jensen set Misha to work peeling carrots, steaming beans, and mashing the contents of the hulled potatoes once they'd sizzled and spat in the microwave. He learned the secret to the potato stuffing was garlic butter, cheese and sour cream, “the more saturated fat the better,” according to his animated teacher, and upon sitting down together to eat, he was inclined to agree as the rich moist stuffing oozed from their leathery crisp cases.

They’d cooked too much food for the two of them but their stray roommate didn’t brave the weather to return, a circumstance Misha was quietly grateful for as spending the evening with Jensen alone was more artless and uninhibited than he could have imagined. Sure there were moments when their banter ran aground, or when Misha felt distractedly close as they brushed near each other, reminding him that as disconcerted and annoyed as he was by the ongoing attraction, something in him simmered, flaring like a plasma ball whenever Jensen was in range.

It wasn’t until they had packed the leftovers away and were sharing dish duty that their conversation hit a speed bump, leaving Misha to fumble.

“So…uh, who’s Alex?” Jensen asked when Misha’s back was turned, returning plates to their high shelf in one of the cupboards.

He picked up the damp tea towel and waited until the clouds slinking over his face had passed until he turned back. “My ex,” he said, curiosity at the inquiry edging into his attempt at a purposefully flat tone.

“I figured. It’s just that you mentioned the name, a coupla times. When you were sleeping.” Alarm blossomed, sending Misha’s brain into overdrive, questions sprouting like unruly daisies. Jensen rambled on, his expression growing more sheepish as Misha couldn’t help staring him down. “Um, ya know, when you were feverish and I was checking on you.”

“Oh.”

“You talked a bit, actually. There were a lot of Presidents.” Mirthful brows quivering, Jensen paused like he was hoping for an explanation.

“Oh God,” Misha quietly groaned, folding his arms and planting his face into the heel of his hand, slightly petrified at what Jensen might say next. He didn’t say anything, however, and when Misha looked up again Jensen looked profoundly uncomfortable like he’d overstepped and for once didn’t know what to do about it.

“Alex and I were living together,” he blurted out, in part as a peace offering. “We broke up at the end of summer. On the same weekend as my birthday.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” Silence pooled for a few moments as Misha sifted through his thoughts. “I meant it, last night - I’m over it. Despite whatever my subconscious said,” he added with a grimace.

“She?...he?..musta done a number on you,” Jensen sympathized.

Misha cast him a sharp look, slightly aghast at how he’d missed the lack of pronouns in the conversation and Jensen’s lack of assumption.

“In this case: ‘she’,” he admitted slowly. “And I let her.”

A lopsided smile dawned on Jensen’s mouth. “In this case? How many exes named Alex do you have?”

He smiled back, belatedly realizing the covert ambiguity he’d made room for in his answer, and pleased with himself for it nonetheless.

They stood for a moment as the awkwardness melted again, and Misha’s focus zeroed in on Jensen’s mouth, suddenly caught up in the idea of what it would be like to kiss him, from an investigative point of view more than a lustful one. How would it feel, that delicate high cheekbone under his thumb as he lifted his mouth to press it to the soft arc of those lips? What would it be like kissing someone taller than he, if only by a shade; at nigh on six feet Misha had never considered that possibility before. And how would Jensen respond - would he be passive? Sensuous? Or would he try to wrest control, determined to get the first taste _—_

“Misha?”

 _Shit_. “Sorry, what?”

“Where’d you go?”

“Um _—_ ”

“Hey man, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought her up,” Jensen apologized, earnest and contrite.

_Oh._

“No, it’s _—_ you’re fine. It’s fine,” he stammered, feeling the blush creep along his collarbone and up his neck as he lifted the next damp plate from the rack and pretended to concentrate on drying it within an inch of its life. He was glad Jensen had mistaken his preoccupation for introspection, but at the same time, he didn’t want him to feel like he’d intruded. In fact, he realized, he wanted Jensen to overstep, to pull at his frays and see how much he could unravel. It scared him a little, right there, that he could imagine cleaving himself open for someone again already _—_ and not just someone; this _guy_ , whom he _lived_ with.

It scared him only slightly less that he couldn't tell when he'd given up trying to resist, though it was possibly around Eisenhower. Or maybe Nixon.

They finished the remainder of the clean-up in near silence as the fatigue of the day began to hit Misha with force. He discerned with some regret he was going to have to return to his room and curl up for the night, but before could excuse himself Jensen announced that he was also retiring to tidy up his essay. Misha gestured him to go ahead and flipped the light switch as they exited leaving them in darkness as they made their way to their rooms on opposite sides of the hallway. Jensen reached his first and turned on the light, casting a glow at his back when he stayed blocking doorway but leaving his face in shadow.

“Hey, uh...thanks for hanging out with me,” he said clumsily, betraying the forced nonchalance of his lean on the door frame.

The impression of being chastely dropped at his front door launched from Misha’s occipital to his frontal lobe, but he tried to shake his thoughts free. “Thanks for the instruction,” he returned. “Maybe I can return the favor this week; I promised Felicia dinner Thursday. That’s umm, if you’re free, and want to gamble on my less formidable aptitude for cooking.”

A concentrated frown occupied Jensen’s face for a moment before it smoothed into a smile. “I’m can be home that night, so it’s a deal,” he said. “And I’m taking that as a weirdly wordy compliment.

Misha dipped his head but smiled back. “You should. And I’m sorry _—_ ” he paused for a breath and small muster of courage. “ _—_ for, uh, calling you moody last night. I didn’t mean it.”

Jensen’s smile crawled sideways into a smirk. “Yeah you did, and I deserved it. I shouldn’t have let my dick friends psyche me out. This isn’t high school.”

“For better and worse, friends know your weak points,” he commiserated. _And how to exploit them, especially if they become lovers_ , he added silently to himself.

“Yeah, they aren’t always helpful, even when they mean well. Which they do, in this case.”

He didn’t respond, choosing instead to see if Jensen wanted to elaborate without prompting, but not needing him to. What came next, however, left him reeling, like he’d received a double shot of adrenaline and then been dunked in an ice bath.

“They think I’ve been on my own too long; that I haven’t taken any chances in a while,” Jensen resumed, eyes flashing in the gloom as he looked at the floor and took a heavy swallow, “and they know I’m kinda, uh…crushing on someone.”

“Oh?” he croaked, feeling the floor shift like a sand-blown dune under his feet. He looked down to make sure the carpet was still there.

Jensen said something to himself, low and whispered, that Misha couldn't hear, before “Um _—_ they think I like you.”

Misha’s half-drawn breath locked in his throat as his eyes darted from Jensen’s socked feet up to the stark lines of his face to find him looking squarely back.

“And the truth is, I do.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

By Thursday morning Misha had tied himself in so many knots going over Sunday’s conversation he could probably start giving rope lessons at a kink club.

In fact, every conversation he could remember having with Jensen over the few months since he’d moved into the apartment had gone through his head as he analyzed and over-analyzed their interactions in light of Jensen’s disclosure. The process was heightened by it occurring entirely in a vacuum, brought about by Misha having barely seen or spoken to Jensen since Sunday night. Whether this occurred by accident or design he couldn’t be sure, but he was increasingly frustrated by not knowing what Jensen’s little declaration meant, or how he was supposed to feel about it.

Sometimes getting what you want is like that longed for Christmas present which, as soon as it’s presented, loses its magic and appeal and you’re left to wonder why you pined for it so keenly. On other occasions getting what you want simply opens the door to all the other things you didn’t know you wanted, but now want so badly it aches. Misha really wished he was subject to the first reaction, but all he felt was his insides straining towards that door.

But Jensen had left Misha there, saying _that_ and then shutting his bedroom door with only a stumbled “g’night” and a nervous rub of the back of his neck, without any indication that he even wanted anything in return. Ever since Misha had had no choice but to feel avoided and left to wallow in his confusion and questions.

Was Jensen embarrassed or ashamed? The confession certainly only seemed an accident of sorts; Misha knew nothing of Jensen’s relationship history or preferences, so he supposed it might be possible they were both in the same uninitiated boat in terms of an even XY chromosome distribution. The unavoidable fact Misha was a ‘he’ might explain why Jensen said he let his friends get to him.

Surely it couldn’t be because Jensen wasn’t aware of Misha’s paralyzing infatuation - he’d felt painfully transparent for weeks. But then, had Misha given any indication that he was open to acting on it? Upon self-examination, he still wasn’t sure he was open to anything (even now) so he supposed it was possible Jensen wasn’t even expecting reciprocation.

There was also the fact they lived together, which Felicia had so eloquently reinforced was a terrible faux pas. But Jensen had always seemed so assured and self-aware, and decisive, not the kind to let rules and formality get in the way of something he wanted. So... maybe he didn’t actually ‘want’ it — whatever _it_ was—in the same way that Misha himself wasn’t sure he wanted ‘it’.

But Misha still wanted to be wanted. Oh, how he wanted it, with a force Jensen couldn’t possibly have known when he’d proclaimed those two tiniest of words. ‘I do’ Jensen had said, the short declaration pinging around Misha like a pinball in the days since, leaving him equal parts dumbfounded and feeling like a twelve-year-old girl sighing ‘he likes me’ over and over.

Now it was the day of the dinner, which brought with it an additional layer of neurosis. He was assuming Jensen would still be home for dinner and hadn’t gone looking for an excuse to ditch the invitation. Should he text to confirm? Would that seem needy? Jensen would have to reply to him. But then, what if he didn’t? That would be worse and _oh God he had no idea how to do this._

After a short debate, he decided to put a pin in it and call Felicia instead, if only to make sure she was still intending to grace them with her inimitable presence. Even the thought of her not being able to make it induced the first flutterings of panic that he would be left to negotiate the inevitable awkwardness alone.

“You have two minutes!” was the cheerfully terse greeting he received when she picked up the call.

“Good morning to you too,” he groused.

“Sorry, I’m just— fudgesticks!” Misha listened to muffled dead air for a moment. “Sorry, spilled some water. I can’t find my keys!”

“I won’t keep you - just wanted to confirm you’re still on for dinner.”

“Eeeee!” came the sudden loud reply. “Found them! Oh thank the gods, I’ve been tossing the place for _hours_.”

“I’m very happy for you,” he supplied flatly.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“Dinner, to—”

“Oh, right!” she interrupted. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. What time? I get out at five. Want me to bring something? I can pick up anything on the way!”

She finally took a breath, so he answered. “No, not unless you want to. I’ll be home by then, so just turn up.”

“You’re going to school?”

“I went yesterday, just to prepare for the class I said I’d take today. I’ll survive.” The truth was he wasn’t looking forward to it. Just the cycle ride to campus yesterday had worn him out. His professor had tried to persuade him to take the whole week at home but he was so entirely sick of being sick he was determined to push through. He just needed to brave the tutorial he led twice per week, hang in for a two-hour lecture after lunch, and then he could come home and collapse for a couple of hours if need be before entering the evening.

“Okay,” his friend replied, her tone mildly disapproving. “Gotta jet. See you tonight!”

“Bye—” he managed before the call cut out.

Throwing his phone on to charge for half an hour while he had a coffee and something to eat (like a responsible adult), he made his way to the kitchen in time to catch Rob gathering his things to leave.

“Hey,” Misha said as his roommate patted his pockets.

“Hey! Have you seen my phone?”

“Nope, sorry. What does it look like?” he answered, wondering if his whole day was going to be interrupting others looking for personal possessions.

“Oof, never mind!” he exclaimed, fishing it from a side pocket on his backpack before triumph was replaced with a string of the most mildly delivered expletives Misha had ever heard.

“Eight percent! That’s not gonna get me through the day is it?”

“Ah, no. Sorry,” Misha commiserated. “So, I’m cooking dinner for a friend —uh, Felicia—if you want to join, you be most welcome. I think Jensen was going to be around,” he finished weakly.

“Sure, I was just going to grab something before rehearsal but— yeah, you’re on. What time?”

Misha shrugged and plucked a number out of the air. “Seven, I guess?”

“Cool—cool. I’ll be here. Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” he assured, seeing Rob out the door to leave him alone in the apartment to only guess at whether Jensen would show.

Hastily downing some caffeine and a croissant, he packed up and left for the day.

 

It wasn’t until he was on his way home and stopped at the supermarket he sought inspiration for what to cook while wandering the shelves. He was less concerned with skill and originality than producing something edible, so he went for some packaged fresh fettuccine, a pre-made sauce, and some fresh basil leaves together with a few diced cuts of chicken to throw in. Lastly, he grabbed a cheesecake then doubled back to the bakery section to add some artisan type bread.

Halfway home he cursed himself for not picking up a bottle of wine, but let himself off when he reasoned he wouldn’t have fit one in his backpack anyway, and there was probably already alcohol around the house if anyone was desperate. Once there he stacked all but the bread in the refrigerator, had a shower to warm and clean up, and gratefully sank into bed to recover and avoid acknowledging how anxious he was about the evening. He wasn’t sure he was more nervous about Jensen being there, or if he wasn’t.

After an hour or so of undisturbed zoning-out on top of his comforter, he heard a knock at the door, the executor of which presented him with a bottle of red wine when he opened it.

“I fucking love you,” he said, gratefully taking it from Felicia’s outstretched hand and stifling a cough.

“Wish more people greeted me like that,” she replied, before launching into mother-hen mode. “How are you feeling? Sure you’re up to this?”

“Better now you’re here,” he said, entirely honest, then elaborated at her skeptical frown. “I’m a little tired,” he admitted, “but I feel better than I thought I would. This cough is wearing, more than anything.”

“Okay. You need to let me help.” Her tone left no room for argument as she twisted out of her coat to reveal a satin blouse the same shade of storm-washed blue as her eyes.

“You look lovely,” he said, with a sudden swell of affection. “Too lovely for my cooking. Or this shithole.”

Felicia enacted what passed for a curtsey while wearing jeans. “Why thank you. Not gonna lie, I’m thinking of trying to steal your boyfriend. And this place is fine, it has character!”

Misha rolled his eyes and gestured for her to follow him to the kitchen, pushing down the ball in his stomach at the mere mention of him. “I’m not even sure he’s coming.”

“What? No, that won’t do. This is not what I signed up for.”

“Oh, so you really  _did_ only accept my invitation as a science experiment,” he teased.

“Of course!” She gave him a wink, then demanded a drink of his finest (only) tea, which they sat and drank at the cluttered table while he hesitantly told her about how his Sunday evening had ended, followed by the anti-climactic week.

He’d never seen her eyes go so wide as when he recounted Jensen’s admission, even though he followed it with his doubts regarding why he chose to say it or meant by it. She was still squeaking like a boiling kettle as he told her how he’d barely seen him in the four days since, though she disappointingly didn’t show anything like concern for his angst over the situation. In fact, she was in the middle of assuring him he was probably over-reading everything when they were disrupted by voices outside and the click of the front door unlatching.

Misha’s two roommates shuffled into the room, a jumble of stamping feet and pink cheeks from the snap of cold weather outside. “Sorry, are we late? We stopped for a drink on the way home,” Rob announced. “Okay, maybe three drinks,” he added with a docile grin.

Misha stood, ready to commence his kitchen duty, and maybe exhibit some avoidance of his own. “No, you’re fine,” he said, keeping his eyes on Rob. “Actually you’re early. I haven’t even started, but it won’t take long.” His brain immediately flew to all the reasons why Jensen might have decided he needed to fortify himself with alcohol before being forced to spend an evening with him.

The scrubby flames of insecurity spluttered and died when he turned to the kitchen, shadowed by the object of his misgiving, leaving Felicia and Rob to re-introduce themselves. “Sure you up for this?” Jensen said behind Misha’s shoulder. “We can order in, no big deal.”

He painted on a bright smile and turned. “No, I’m good. Why, are you trying to get out of eating my cooking after all?” Jensen merely traded Misha’s grin with a genuine one, crossing his ankles to lean on the counter with his trademark grace infused with casual self-assurance. Misha’s stomach did a small flip-flop, but his nerves calmed like they’d been smeared with aloe. “I wasn’t sure you’d remembered,” he added.

“Of course,” Jensen said, his smile widening before his eyes dropped demurely to the ground. “Uh, is it safe to leave your friend with mine? I could use a hot shower.”

“Leese can hold her own. And I don’t think she’ll bite - don’t quote me on that though.”

"Ha! Okay, I’ll see you in a few,” Jensen said, unfolding himself again and moving on, leaving Misha to sigh and try to remember what he was supposed to be doing.

The evening progressed better than he could have expected, and certainly better than he hoped. Felicia joined in, surreptitiously keeping him on track without interfering, while Jensen tidied and set the table unbidden. The food was edible bordering on extremely satisfactory, not that Misha accepted any of the credit he was given by his company, and the opportune wine was a fitting accompaniment. Moreover, the conversation flowed with few awkward pauses, and although there were a few times Misha caught Jensen’s eye and promptly didn’t know where to look, he was confident he didn’t show how overwrought and fidgety he’d been all week.

It wasn’t until Rob had excused himself and left for band practice that Misha had his first encounter with utter embarrassment.

“What a sweet guy,” Felicia had noted when he’d gone. “Funny too.”

Jensen’s expression turned distant, although a small smile lingered. “Yeah, he’s one of the good ones.”

“Known him long?” she prompted. Misha twirled the stem of his all-but-empty glass between his fingertips and wondered, with slight trepidation, where she was leading the topic.

“Since my freshman year. Robbie was my RA. I didn’t know him that well, but I was going through some stuff at one point so he...uh, helped me figure a way through.” He paused for a moment long enough that Misha was about to come up with an interjection, but then he went on. “We got to know each other, became friends—we just hit it off, ya know? He was teaching me the guitar and...then he got sick, right before he was due to graduate. Meningitis: the bad kind. Real bad—it was touch and go for a few days.”

Jensen swallowed, and Misha watched as he absently pushed a small pile of crumbs around the tablecloth, herding them with one fingernail. “Anyway,” he finally went on, “I spent a few weeks with him in the hospital because his family couldn’t come for long, and then helped out afterward when he was recovering, which took all summer. There was rehab, and he lost his short-term memory for a while. It was a haul, but he came right. Since then we’ve been kinda inseparable - moved in together, he persuaded me to join his side band—”  He looked up, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Sorry for the downer. That story is a little heavy for dessert.”

“That explains why you two are so tight,” Felicia said warmly.

Jensen’s right brow arched. “Yeah, I guess we are.” He smiled again, rueful this time, and cast a quick glance at Misha. “I feel very...protective towards him, I guess.”

The cogs in Misha’s brain rotated rapidly as he assimilated this information before his friend spoke and they crunched to a painful, gasping halt.

“Meesh thought you might be a couple,” she said with a tipsy giggle.

Jensen looked startled, and if Misha wasn’t rooted to the spot he may well have throttled her and hid her body in the ominous hall closet. But then his roommate leaned his head back and laughed like he’s never seen anyone laugh before.

Misha began to retract. “It was only...I didn’t—”  He stopped, his spluttering only seeming to set Jensen’s full body amusement off even more, which despite the circumstance was fast becoming Misha’s favorite thing ever.

Beside him, Felicia was bobbing about in her seat, her snorting laugh contrasting with Jensen’s breathless one. “Actually, that explains a few things,” Jensen wheezed.

Misha cringed. “It was an honest mistake, okay? Sometimes I just...don’t read people,” he whined, sagging with honesty.

“Ah huh,” Jensen agreed, finding his equilibrium again. “It's cute,” he added, causing Misha to lift his eyes from his empty plate. The glimmer in Jensen’s crystallized, locking Misha in just as he’d done a number of times before, only now Misha was a compliant captive with an involuntary smile seeping onto his sulking face.

“Ahem,” Felicia cut in, subtle as a brick. “So this has been lovely, but I can’t hang around. Big weekend ahead!”

Jensen broke gaze first and he began gathering dishes into a pile. “I’ll help clear up while you two say goodbye.”

“You don’t have—” Misha began, but he was cut off.

“Yeah I do,” Jensen insisted, standing up. “I’ll say goodnight; early class, and we have a gig tomorrow night. Hey, if you’re up to it, you should come,” he said, catching Misha’s eye again, though with noticeably less confidence. “Both of you,” he amended, “you know, if you want.”

“Um, yes, okay. Sure,” Misha inelegantly replied before he allowed himself to overthink the answer. “Leese?”

“I’d love to! But I have a date,” Felicia said, pouting, then landed a hand on Misha’s shoulder. “But I’m sure you’ll look after him.”

Misha was thoroughly trapped in his rash commitment. “I’ll text you the deets tomorrow, in case I don’t catch you again,” Jensen replied to him.

“Okay, sounds good.” Misha was fairly sure he missed ‘casual enthusiasm’ by a country mile but Jensen was already leaving with an armful of plates.

Sparing a look at his friend he met her wide eyes accompanied by an equally wide grin. Then she punched him in the bicep with a muted squeal.

“Ow! Shhh!” he whispered furiously. “What was that for?”

“Will you walk a lady to her car?” she countered, overly loud.

“Anything for you,  _friend,_ ” he said, eye-rolling at her theatrics.

They’d not even made it to the bottom of the stairs before she exploded. “You’re going on a date!” she squawked, batting his arm again.

“Will you stop beating me up?” he complained, “I’m still fragile. And it’s not a date _:_ he asked you too, and it’s his band! Not dinner and a movie.”

“He didn’t mean to ask me,” she argued, “and it’s a date.”

She nodded as if that was the end of the matter and pushed past him onto the sidewalk. “It’s not a date,” he grumbled, trailing in her emphatic wake. “He’s been avoiding me all week, did I mention that?”

“Yes, you did,” she said, turning beside her car’s back bumper, “and what I saw tonight was not a guy who’s indifferent or embarrassed, or playing you, or whatever excuses you’re making up in your head,” she admonished, because she knew him too well.

He scoffed anyway and shoved his cool hands into his jean pockets, belatedly realizing he probably should have put a coat on.

“I mean, the way you two keep stealing glances at each other? And hanging on every word? Ugh,” She drew up her shoulders in excitement. “I totally ship it!” she added brightly.

“What are you _talking_ about?” he replied, exasperated, “and what _glances?_ ”

“Oh my god, you don’t even realize you’re doing it. It’s soooo cute!”

“I hate you.”

She leveled him with a suddenly serious look. “Go and have fun. I know you’ll have to speak sternly to your introvert-self, but you can do it. He likes you, remember?”

He made another dismissive noise. “I still don’t know what that means.”

“That’s why you need to follow the yellow brick road to find out. Goodnight,” she said kindly and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for dinner. Now go get some sleep, you look wiped.”

“Terrific,” he mumbled, still griping even as she shut the door on him and started the engine.

Back inside the apartment was silent, with the dishwasher stacked and the countertops wiped clean. Jensen’s door was closed, he noted, and he spent the entire time he cleaned his teeth trying to convince himself Felicia was wrong and whatever was meant by the invitation, it in no way could be considered one extended specifically to him for the purpose of anything other than including him in both his roommates wider social circle. The assertion didn’t do anything to quell the anticipation fermenting in his stomach.

  


Friday was a campus-free day for Misha, for which he was particularly grateful since he woke to feel listless and spent the morning drowsy and idle, giving up on the idea he woke up with to at least get the haircut he’d needed for weeks. By the afternoon, however, the house was still empty and he managed to find a gear that allowed him some quality time with his thesis, working until his stomach notified him dinner should be considered an immediate objective. It was only then he remembered he’d put his phone on silent so he wasn’t distracted, and found several messages, one the promised info from Jensen about the gig they were playing in a few hours. It was a bar Misha didn’t really know because it was downtown, away from the student quarter where he’d done most of what passed for socializing over his college career.

Weighing up his travel options while he constructed a grilled chicken sandwich, he decided to take the bus into town rather than ride in and meet the others in time for a drink, as per Jensen’s typed suggestion.

An hour, shower, and short bus ride later, Misha found himself tentatively joining a long table full of not just the faces of his roommates and the friends that had dropped into their apartment from time to time, but others too. He had to force down the urge to run from the overwhelming number of people he didn’t know but who all obviously knew each other. It helped that after Rob came out to throw a welcoming hand on his shoulder and introduce him to the table, he led him to the corner where Jensen was leaning and deposited him there.

“You made it,” Jensen said, softly stating the obvious while Misha shrugged off his coat and draped on the stool next to him. “Wanna drink?”

“Sure. Um, whatever you’re having,” he replied, hyper-aware of the way his shoulder brushed up against the heat of Jensen’s. “I can get it—”

“Nah we have tab - band discount,” Jensen explained, extending the offer to the rest of the table before traipsing up to the bar and leaving Misha alone.

He barely had time to look nervously around at the mostly unfamiliar faces before the woman two places to his right shuffled next to him. “You must be the roommate,” she said with a wide grin supported by cavernous dimples. She brushed a cascade of blonde hair away and curled around a hand. “Hi, I’m Briana.”

Misha couldn’t help but smile in return. “Nice to meet you. I’m Misha,” he confirmed, fitting his palm into hers.

“Misha,” she repeated, trying the name out with a drawl. “Cool name. Suits you.”

Warming to her immediately, he lowered his voice. “I have a secret. It’s not my real name.”

“Oooh,” she chimed. “Mr. Mysterious.” Then she leaned towards him, conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” She mimed twisting a key at the corner of her mouth and sliding it into the zipped pocket of the leather jacket she wore. “First time?” she added, nodding to the shallow stage.

“Seeing them play?” he clarified, thrown off guard for a moment. “Yeah, though I’ve no idea what to expect,” he admitted.

“Don’t worry, you picked a good one.” She followed her reply with a wink, and Misha was in the middle of debating whether he should ask her to elaborate when Jensen returned, slinking back into the open space to his left.

“I see you met Bri,” he said. “I hope she went easy on you.”

Briana pretended to be shocked. “I would never!” she exclaimed, in a tone that indicated she absolutely would, although Misha wasn’t sure what not going easy on him may involve.

She and Jensen smiled and pulled faces around him, making it obvious they knew each other very well. Rather than being intimidated by being at a disadvantage, the fact he felt drawn to her right off the bat was comforting, even if he couldn’t pinpoint why. In fact, Misha rarely felt uncomfortable as for the next hour, as the first, second and more rounds arrived and the bar began to fill with patrons. He still wasn’t sure he should be drinking, but it was difficult not to amongst the chatter of Jensen and Rob’s friends, even if he was still mostly on the edges of conversations. With a growing warm glow, it almost took him by surprise when his roommates along with several others excused themselves to head for their instruments, already sitting on the stage. “Wish me luck,” Jensen said near Misha’s ear as he stood.

“Um, break a leg?” Misha offered.

Jensen scrunched his nose. “Close enough,” he judged, then paused to take a reassuring breath. “Okay,” he said, seeming to steel himself.

After a few moments last-minute tuning, Rob announced their set and they began to play, launching straight into an upbeat rock song that had most in the bar turning their heads. It ended with a moderate smattering of applause, though their long table provided more than their fair share with whoops and whistles, Briana nearly deafening Misha with one right next to his ear. From there the crowd grew larger and more vocal as the bar filled and the band worked their way through a range of covers—many Misha recognized even though he couldn’t name any—interspersed with a handful of what Rob introduced as original songs which had a more bluesy feel to them.

Misha tried to not watch Jensen more than any of the others, but he forgave himself for letting his eyes return to Jensen’s studied performance, mostly off to the side apart from the few times he contributed a harmonizing vocal. Occasionally Jensen’s eyes swept the crowd, but for the most part, he seemed absorbed in what he was doing or sharing eye contact with his bandmates. It was difficult for Misha to remain impassive with Briana, Melanie and Matt around him hollering around clapping, and with the aid of his fourth drink, he found himself generously cheering along.

But then he was struck silent where he stood when Rob, in his element on stage in ways Misha had never seen him before, introduced Jensen up the center microphone before taking his guitar and place off to the left. Misha could tell now that Jensen was dampening nerves as he stepped behind the stand, gripped the mic with one hand and bowed his head. As the first bars crested and crashed around him he tapped his fingers on his thigh, eyes on the floor until the loud guitars fell away. Then he raised his chin and sang.

Deeper and more coarse than the voice Misha was used to hearing, he couldn’t help staring as Jensen crooned lyrics of disenchantment and yearning, mirrored in his face. Jensen kept his gaze either down or to the back of the room as the first verse rode the gathering baseline. It wasn’t until his bandmates backed him into the chorus Misha caught the shadow of a smile before Jensen disappeared back into the music again.

Misha tried to place why the chords sounded familiar and chanced a thoughtful glance at Briana, enthusiastically swaying at his side while still cradling her drink. She caught it and grinned back at him, then leaned into his ear.

“Not bad for his first time, huh?” she bellowed, elbowing his ribs.

“Singing?” She nodded in affirmation, her eyebrows dancing while Misha assimilated the information, astounded that he was here to witness it.

Jensen relaxed more into the second verse, Misha sure his shoulders had softened as his eyes wafted around the crowd. Then Jensen came to a repeated line at the end. _I hope it’s gonna make you notice,_ he sang a second time, his gaze seeming to land unflinchingly on Misha just as he followed with _Someone like me._

Misha froze, not clearing the shock off his face before Jensen closed his eyes while the song continued. Then he had to restart his heart.

He barely remembered the rest, a thousand thoughts darting around his mind until the last chords died and applause took over. Getting to his feet, only began clapping because everyone around him was.

He came to again when Rob introduced Briana and she yelped “Ooh that’s me!“ next to him, put down her drink and wove among the crowd towards the stage.  Then she was singing, owning the room while belting out Black Velvet—one song Misha did actually know— while Jensen sang backup into her mic. He was reunited with his guitar and this time carefree and grinning, playing along with her sultry performance. They looked like they belonged together.

Next to him, Rob’s girlfriend Melanie shuffled into the space vacated by Briana. “They’re awesome, aren’t they,” she said like she was looking for an opening for a conversation.

“Yes, they are,” he agreed, his stomach dropping. “Have they known each other long?”

“Since before my time,” she replied, above the noise. “I heard they dated for a hot minute, but decided they were better friends.”

“Oh.”

“Nothing to worry about,” she added with a slanted smile. Misha’s brow knitted and he looked away, feeling a little light-headed at the strange exchange. Or maybe he should just stop drinking.

Briana stayed on stage for the last few songs of the set before the band, after rowdy applause, set down their instruments and filtered back to the table. “Woo! That was fun!” she exclaimed, claiming the spot to the other side of him and downing a waiting bourbon shot with one tip of her wavy golden mane. Jensen had taken the route around the far end of the long leaner, receiving handshakes and claps on the shoulder from his friends, one of them shoving a beer into his hands. At one point someone was saying something in his ear and a honeyed smile took broke on his face, then he glanced at Misha, flustering him at being caught already watching.

“We need more alcohol,” Briana declared, slapping her hand on the table and giving him reason to break the stare.  “Mysterious Misha! ‘nother drink?”

“Um—no, I’m fine, thanks. You were fantastic, by the way. I’m just gonna—” he stuttered, awkwardly looking around and excusing himself, suddenly needing a little air. He found his way to the side of the room and the somewhat narrow and winding route to the male bathroom, breathing a sigh of relief as the noise and pressure of people died away the further he went down the dingy red painted corridor.

Once he’d finished he paused to look in the mirror, pleased to see he didn’t look as tipsy or tired as he felt. He ruffled some life into his hair, which caused him immediate regret as the too-long strands at the front fell into his eyes and then refused to be put back in place. Huffing at himself, he exited the room turned the first corner, only to find himself chest to chest with his roommate.

“Sorry,” they both apologized at once, then grinned at each other. “Uh, good job, with the...song,” Misha added, his vocabulary deserting him in the rush to fill the pregnant pause that followed the near collision.

Jensen seemed to still take heart at the compliment. “Thanks, man. It went ok, I think. I was so fucking nervous though,” he admitted.

“You were great. I didn’t show, if that helps. I mean, I wouldn’t have known it was your debut if Briana hadn’t told me.”

“She told you? What else did she tell you?” he teased, jovially feigning worry.

Two patrons brushed past them, and they shuffled into the shallow alcove created by a nearby closet. “I never betray a source,” Misha evaded, shaking his head. The motion had him brushing the hair off his forehead again. “I had no idea you sang though. You were playing that song the other day, weren’t you—I heard you practicing—but you’ve never sung at home.”

“Not while you’re there,” Jensen returned wryly. “It’s something I’ve had to work hard on. Stagefright, I guess.”

Misha was distracted with why he might be classed as ‘audience’ in his own home, which might have been why he didn’t anticipate the movement when Jensen lifted a hand and stroked the stubbornly errant hair away from his temple, fingertips featherlight. Misha held his breath, his lips parting as he thought for half a moment he was actually going to be kissed, right there, as the light in Jensen’s eyes deepened into something else.

Then someone else walked past, belching as they rounded the corner, and Jensen’s arm fell away along with the moment.

“Have you been avoiding me this week?” Misha blurted, concluding hallway admissions were becoming their thing. If they had a thing, which is what he suddenly and fiercely needed to know.

Jensen tilted his head. “It’s been a hell of a week, sorry,” he answered, which was not much of an explanation one way or the other, then looked down and doubled back. “Uh—yeah, kinda. Sorry for putting that on you the other night.”

“Look who’s apologizing too much now?” Misha replied, getting the corners of Jensen’s mouth to twitch. “And you didn’t—um—I didn’t mind…we could, you know, talk about it—later,” he stumbled on, running out of words.

Jensen took over, shuffling the feet he still focused on. “I shouldn’t have,” he asserted, stronger this time. “I have this bad habit of—I tend to fall for my friends.”

“Oh, I see,” Misha said, even though he didn’t at all. “Am I—are we friends?” he asked warily.

Jensen finally looked up, but the flicker had faded from his eyes. “No,” he replied, thoughtful and deliberate as a chill went down Misha’s spine. Jensen folded his arms. “I just—I don’t think—”

“No, it’s okay,” Misha interrupted, mortified, “you don’t have to explain.” He probably could do with an explanation but more pressing was the need to be anywhere else than in the narrow space with his acute rejection.

“Mish—”

“Nevermind, I misunderstood. I’ll catch you later,” he butted in, eager to not hear anything else that would make him dizzier. He stepped sideways and pushed past Jensen, ignoring his name being repeated after him one more time. Curbing the impulse to veer towards the bar for another drink, Misha headed straight for the door and outside where he could get some fresh air instead.

Heaving misty breaths in the late night chill, he hazily decided to wander the two blocks to the bus station, realizing just as he arrived that he was so cold because in his haste to leave he’d forgotten his coat, no doubt still draped on the stool where he’d been sitting. Just the thought of going back for it made him flush with humiliation, so he mentally wrote it off as collateral damage since his wallet was safe in his back jean pocket.

The timetable revealed he’d just missed a connection, and the next wasn’t for half an hour, so his options were to spring for a ride, wait in the damp cold, or find somewhere to wait where he was less likely to get pneumonia. At least, he thought piteously, it would be Jensen’s fault if he did, though really it was his own for misinterpreting whatever the fuck had been happening the past few weeks.

Looking around there were not many people, but there were a couple of bars across the street, so he set off for one without thinking twice. Once inside he sighed with warm relief despite the raucous Friday night crowd and found a space at the bar.

Twenty minutes later he was nursing his second neat bourbon and still berating himself for feeling the sudden loss of something he didn’t understand or want in the first place when someone tall and slim arranged themselves neatly onto the vacated stool next to him.

“You look like you need a distraction,” an earthy voice observed.

Misha turned and focused, first through the alcohol, and then shock. It took him a moment to make his mouth work.

“Alex," he said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to HoldenMacrae for the genuis suggestion of 'Use Somebody' by Kings of Leon for Jensen's song.


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

Misha stirred, the crash and hydraulic whine of a garbage truck outside the window interrupting a dream he forgot the second he was pulled from it. Weighed down by sleep, his brain dragged together just enough awareness to resent that it wasn’t even garbage day and the truck had no right to be waking him up.

His eyes flew open when that resentment turned into a horrifying realization: he was right but also very wrong. It wasn’t his garbage day because he wasn’t in his own bed, or even his part of town.

_Alex._

Almost afraid to move, Misha skirted his periphery and concluded he was lying on a couch, which partially allayed his fears. Shifting his hips to stretch alerted him to two more facts. One - the couch was both overly soft and lumpy and his back was going to be mutinous, and two - his underwear was twisted around his thighs, which meant he was wearing them and therefore, just maybe, he hadn’t done anything regressively stupid after all.

He sat up, tentatively testing his equilibrium, but his lungs weren’t predicting the sudden movement and coughed loudly in protest.

“Ah! You’re awake at last,” his host observed from somewhere behind him. Twisting around he took in his ex-partner as she leaned on the counter, sapphire blue satin robe cascading to her knees and holding a cup below her nose. He could still tell she was smirking.

“Sorry,” he croaked, swiveling his socked feet to the floor. “Have you been up long?” He ran fingers through his hair as the first drumbeats of a headache made themselves known. His mouth tasted like flooded carpet.

“Long enough to know you still snore when you’ve been drinking.”

Misha’s heart sank under the weight of old familiarities and the reasons it felt wrong to be here. _Why was he here? Where even was here?_ He looked around the small apartment, elegantly under-decorated. He didn’t recognize anything from the time they’d been together, save for a couple of photos of her parents and sisters, sitting on the bookshelf. They were housed in new frames.

“Tea?” Alex offered. “Lemon and ginger, for that throat.”

“Please, that...sounds exactly what I need,” he accepted with genuine gratitude.

Half a minute later a steaming mug was deposited on the tabletop in front of his knees, the tag on the tea bag hanging over the rim. “I usually knew what you needed, even if I never knew what you wanted,” Alex said, with a kind of dry resignation as she sat in one of the two occasional chairs opposite.

He hung his head, not knowing what she meant but unwilling to take her bait. “Thank you,” he simply answered, ignoring the prickly, defensive manner in which the kindness was presented.

“You’re welcome. Are you looking after yourself? You’ve lost weight, since— before.”

“I’m fine, Lex,” he said, more steady than he felt. “Just...busy.” Misha inhaled sharply, then forged ahead. “Alex, I have to ask: nothing—uh—happened, last night, did it?”

“You don’t remember? Charming!” Misha looked at her bravely, her grey eyes meeting his and losing some of their flint. “What _do_ you remember?”

Misha tried to recall the facts of the night before while avoiding the rollercoaster he’d been on. “I remember missing my bus and having a drink with your friends. More than one drink, actually. I...I remember you telling me off for forgetting my coat, then walking —that’s about it.”

Alex sighed. “That’s half of it. Rather than put you in a cab on a freezing night—drunk—I suggested you crash here since I’m the same block. I got you home and then you tried to leave again. I said you were being silly and to just stay. And then you tried to kiss me.”

_Fuck._

_Idiot._

He picked up his drink, hoping the scalding liquid would distract him from the pounce of the remorse he’d feared.

“I probably would have let you,” she continued, “except I wasn’t drunk enough to not know we’d both want to respect ourselves in the morning, so I dumped a pillow and blanket in your arms and left you with the couch. Now here we are!”

“I apologize, Alex,” he said solemnly, some fleeting memories of the night before darting through his mind, but she waved the apology away. Then she put her mug down and adjusted the fasting on her robe, tucking it securely.

Misha took a moment to study her. She was beautiful, as always. Her straight ash-blonde hair calmly belied the fact she’d just woken up, and the long legs crossed at her birdlike ankles to end in toes painted perfectly with apricot polish. He remembered how he’d revered her, made love to her like she was a precious artifact that called for his worship. They’d undoubtedly been friends, at some point, but he knew now with certainty she was never his _type._ Nor ever his equal, the contrasts between them too jarring to be complementary.

“It’s been good to see you, Misha. Even under the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?” Misha frowned.

“Well, you were obviously upset and running from something, and I never liked to see you unhappy.”

He huffed and took a long drink. _Me being unhappy made you uncomfortable_ he sourly thought to himself. Alex was never at ease with displays of emotion.

“I was running from myself, mostly,” he admitted.

“Why? Yourself isn’t so bad.”

“ _You_ ran.”

He regretted the sharp retort the moment it spilled from his mouth, even though it was the truth. A truth, at least; he supposed no relationship ends with a simple story.

Alex nodded, her eyes dropping behind a curtain of hair, though nothing about the set of her shoulders seemed repentant. Oddly, he appreciated that.

He lifted the mug and took a drink while the charge in the air dissipated. “Who’s ‘him’?”

His senses went on alert despite her abruptly docile tone. “What?”

She cleared her throat. “When I asked you why you were drowning your sorrows, you said ‘I don’t want to talk about him——it.’”

Misha struggled with a range of reactions: leftover dejection from the night before, defense of the sense of self he’d reconstructed from the debris of their relationship, and the newness of what he was experiencing not with Jensen, but because of Jensen. Even if ultimately it was misguided, he wasn’t the same person as he was six months ago, or even six weeks ago, he realized that now.

“It’s none of your business,” he finally said, surprisingly evenly.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry—”

“No, you’re right. It isn’t.” She smiled at him, one without antipathy or pity. The kind of smile he remembered from when they’d first met. “Shall I call you a cab?”

He scratched at his hair, suddenly desperate for a long shower. “What time is it? Uh, nevermind.” Misha reached for his phone, sitting next to his wallet and pooled jeans on the floor near his feet. There were three unread texts from Jensen.

 

 Then two more a half-hour later.

 

 

“No, it’s fine, I’ll just go get the bus,” he answered absently, tapping out an economic reply.

 

“If you wish,” Alex replied. “Just, look after yourself okay?”

Misha swallowed a sarcastic quip noting he didn’t know she still cared. Instead, he cast off the blanket and nonchalantly pulled on his jeans, unconcerned he was giving her a show. In fact, it dawned on him that he couldn’t find it in himself to care what she thought of him in any capacity.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, downing the rest of the tea and slipping his things into his pockets. He wedged on his shoes as Alex stood and crossed to the counter with their cups. He met her there next to the front door, feeling unexpectedly liberated.

“Dmitri,” she said gravely.

“Alexandra,” he replied with a formal nod. “Thank you, for your hospitality.”

“Can I hug you?”

“Sure,” he replied with a tiny huff and reached around her shoulders.

The embrace was neither long or awkward, but was more than perfunctory. Maybe it was forgiveness, of a sort.

“Go get a haircut,” she suggested as she pulled away, her voice flat like she was overcompensating for unwanted emotional interference.

“Actually, I like it long,” he said, just because he could, then let her close the door behind him.

Out on the street the morning felt warm, sunlight bathing the pavement and surprising small puddles of water into puffs of evaporation. Misha took a deep breath, like he could drink the light and feel it trickle through to his extremities. Then he turned to the bus terminal, and home.

Walking into the apartment a half hour later, he was ashamedly relieved it was empty. Passing his problem coat draped over one of the dining chairs, he went straight to the bathroom for a shower, then collected the Tylenol still housed by his bed and took it to the kitchen. Downing a couple of tablets with an orange juice, he slunk back to his room and pulled out his notebook—a thick unlined volume that doubled as a diary and sketchpad of sorts—and scribbled down some of his swirling thoughts. At some point, he drifted gratefully into an extended nap.

Waking famished in the early afternoon but free of his headache, he’d found enough food for a semi-nutritious sandwich and had settled down at his desk to boot his laptop. The front door shutting with a thud alerted him to someone arriving home, and he was tempted to quickly close his bedroom door so he could politely avoid his roommates. His hesitation cost him the choice, the wood echoing with a hollow tap.

Jensen’s figure hovered in the shadow cast by the half-open door. “Hey,” he said before Misha could find his voice.

“Hey. Come in.” Misha swiveled and leaned back in his chair as Jensen took a few steps closer, fists in his front pockets, scrunching his plaid shirt around his waist. “Sorry I didn’t get your texts until I woke up,” he added, cutting off whatever Jensen had opened his mouth to say.

“Uh, no problem. I was worried— without your jacket, ya know?” Jensen bashfully palmed the back of his neck with his right hand. “I was pissed at you, actually. For running out of there like that.”

“You were?” Misha tried not to let annoyance resurface, aimed at his own inability to understand as much as the goalposts Jensen seemed to keep shifting.

“Yeah. Then I re-ran our conversation in my head and realized you were probably shitty at me too.” Jensen flashed him a tight smile. “Then I was just pissed at you for leaving your coat behind when you're still not a hundred percent.”

“Sorry,” he repeated, trying to fathom why Jensen would have felt slighted. Had he been too hasty? But Jensen was the one pulling his strings, delivering mixed messages with every look in his direction, with those familiar touches and spilled words that evidently required retraction. Their last conversation had seemed to him unequivocal, and really, once he’d had a chance to get over the initial hurt, he was fine with it. More than fine.

“Thanks for looking after it, and I apologize that you were concerned. I—I ran into an old friend,” Misha continued, “so we had a few drinks then I crashed at her place.”

“Ah, okay. Well, that’s good then,” Jensen replied uneasily.

“More weird than good,” Misha said, half under his breath. Jensen gave him a puzzled look. “It was Alex—the friend, it was my ex.”

He mulled over the reasons why he’d said that while he studied Jensen’s face for a reaction. All he saw was an exercise in control at not giving one, which he supposed was a reaction all of its own.

“As long as you’re safe,” Jensen murmured obliquely. He could have meant it in any number of ways, Misha inferred. Or all of them.

“My back wouldn’t agree,” he said, feeling more reckless by the second. Jensen’s brows tightened. “Her couch, it was...inhospitable,” he clarified, then threw in playfully “I could use that massage.”

Jensen looked down and seemed to deflate, but the beginnings of a smile rucked his cheeks. When he raised his eyes again they were guarded, but warm.

“Can we start over?” he asked, breathing out the sentence in a rush.

“Start what over?” Misha replied, thrown into confusion. _We didn’t start anything_ he thinks.

Jensen took a step forward and held out his right hand. “Friends?”

_Oh._

He looked Jensen up and down while he turned the offer over. _I’m being friend-zoned. This is...this is okay. Boundaries are helpful._

Misha nodded, expelling the uncertainty that was beginning to show in the slope of Jensen’s shoulders again. Then he reached for the palm offered him and shook it, a brief action which shouldn’t have given him time to confirm once again how soft Jensen’s hands were. “Friends,” he agreed, the prospect of knowing exactly where he stood erupting in a genuine smile of relief that he could now channel his gravitation towards his roommate into a safe, defined arena.

_Well, that’s that then._

 

 

The feeling they’d moved into new and clear territory lasted maybe two weeks at best. Misha discovered they could be easy friends; after a few days of Jensen awkwardly putting effort into not making their interactions awkward, they settled into a rhythm of including each other in meals, gently ribbing each other with increasing irreverence, and even a couple of drinks early one evening at the bar on the edge of campus after they’d bumped into each other on the wide steps that ran up to the administration building. Misha endured fatigue and a persistent tickle in his throat in the first few days but by the end of the second week, he’d fully recovered and almost forgiven his immune system it’s failure protect him. He did make a mental note to never label a simple cold ‘the flu’ again after experiencing the real thing.

Felicia was less quick to forgive, however, when she phoned him the first Thursday to berate him for not telling her how the evening of the gig went.

 _“So?”_  she said, not even bothering with a how do you do.

“Ugh. There’s nothing to tell,” he deflected, knowing stalling was useless.

_“What do you mean there’s nothing to tell? Even nothing is not nothing, but I KNOW there’s something.”_

“Can we talk about it later?” he whined, tucking his phone precariously under his chin while he fumbled at the lock securing his bike to the stand outside the library.

_“Meesh!”_

He stood up and gave in. “Alright—alright. I went. The band was good. He was….good. We talked, now we’re friends. That’s all.”

 _“Friends?”_ she asked, dubious.

“Friends.”

_“You talked?”_

“Yes. Well, he talked, and made it clear whatever _might_ have been happening, he didn’t want it.”

_“Oh Meesh.”_

“It’s fine, honestly. It’s better this way. This is what I want.”

She made a dismissive noise. _“I’m not sure I believe you. I know what I saw._ ”

“I— um, I ran into Alex,” he said, throwing a grenade into the conversation, just to change the subject.

_“What?”_

“I may have got drunk and crashed at her apartment—”

_“WHAT?”_

“—and then mentioned it to Jensen.”

There was a brief choking noise on the other end of the line. _“That’s it, you’re on your own, I give up.”_

“Some friend you are.”

_“Seriously though, are you okay?”_

“Nothing happened, I swear. It was weird and uncomfortable the next morning, but it helped put the past in perspective. I went home, wrote a shitty poem, resolved to never let a good lay ruin another friendship again, and moved on,” he replied cheerfully. “It was cathartic.”

 _“Dammit, you should have called me,”_ she said, her voice gentle rather than accusatory.

“I’m fine. She seems fine, incidentally. Which is...good, ya know? It’s all fine.” He sounded reasonably convinced, he thought, and convincing. Nonetheless, there was silence at the other end. “I have to go,” he said to fill it. “I’m on my way home.”

_“Okay. You should stop by this weekend. My shout, this time.”_

“Sounds good,” he replied by way of farewell, though the weekend ran out from under him as he devoted it to catch up on his workload.

 

 

It was the following one when the frontier with his roommate began to shift again.

Jensen came home, alone, mid-evening on Saturday when Misha—sure he’d have the place to himself for the night—was ensconced in his room and on his third beer with the Brandenburg concertos on full volume (the only acceptable way to listen to chamber music, in his opinion). He was making smudged doodles in his dog-eared book when his roommate had appeared, suddenly and unfairly sauntering through the open door to spin near the foot of his bed and then unceremoniously lay himself out on it.

“Dude, what the _fuck_ are you listening to?” Jensen asked dramatically, one forearm masking his face and hitching his shirt hem to show a slice of creamy midriff.

Misha blinked, drawing his eyes away from the tiny constellation of freckles that dwelled only inches from his bare feet. “Bach. Concerto number five in D major, to be precise.”

“Whatever, man,” was the boozy reply.

Misha reached to adjust the volume down, taking care not to inadvertently kick his intruder in the head. “Can I help you with something? I’d offer you a beer,” he advised, raising his own, “but it looks like you’ve had enough.”

“Damn straight,” Jensen replied, eyes still hidden but with drunken resentment radiating from every clumsy movement. “I’m being a responsible adult an’ coming home early ‘cause I have two fucken papers to write tomorrow. TWO. Sundays suck ass.”

“Life is grievously unfair,” Misha sympathized.

“You said it, my friend. Can’t wait to graduate.” Jensen suddenly rolled to his side and propped himself on one elbow. “What’ya doin’?”

Misha’s gaze narrowed as it fell on Jensen’s open face. “Exactly what it looks like: sitting here alone on a Saturday night drinking beer, listening to profoundly naff music and fucking around.”

“You’re not alone now,” Jensen observed like it was a revelation. “What’s that?” he added, pointing at Misha’s journal.

“Absolutely none of your business,” he said, flipping it onto the bedside and out of both their reach. There was no way he’d ever let Jensen see some of the words written there.

“Spoilsport,” Jensen announced, flopping to his back again in an offended fashion. “Just as well you’re cute, ya weirdo.”

Misha scoffed a silent laugh. He pulled his knees up to hook them under his elbows, half-consciously putting some distance between them. “So I’m the cute one now?” he teased.

“Whaddya mean ‘now’? My cute factor ‘s still fully intact, thankyouverymuch.”

Looking at Jensen’s shining green eyes rolling up at him, Misha drained his bottle and decided to not fall into for the bait on that hook. “I bet you’ve never taken a bad photo in your life,” he commented instead, leaning over to place the empty on the floor.

“Pfffft. My driver’s license would say different.”

“Prove it.”

“Fine.” Jensen tabled his hips in the air, his button-down gaping as his fished for his wallet in his back pocket. “Here,” he said, dropping his rear back down and holding out the card.

Misha took it and looked it over. Jensen’s expression in the grainy photo was serious and he was clearly young and fresh-faced, but the same contours and full lips gave the image unjust vibrancy.

“Horrible. I can barely look at it,” Misha deadpanned as he handed it back.

“But don’t you think I look like I’m about to go stab a puppy?” Jensen appealed to Misha’s sarcasm.

“You look like you’re headed out to audition for a boy band,” Misha countered.

“Fuck you. That’s worse.” Misha chuckled, aloud this time. “Show me yours,” Jensen added, holding out beckoning fingers.

“Nope!”

“Dude I’m gonna see, with your cooperation or not,” Jensen threatened, sitting up.

Misha made the mistake of casting a split-second glance at his own wallet, lying amongst the mounting clutter on his bedside drawer. Jensen caught and followed the look, then made a lunge. Misha’s arm managed to get there first and snatched it up, but his triumph was short lived when Jensen instead grabbed the notebook as a consolation prize. Then he watched in pale terror as his roommate grinned while casually shucking off his shoes, and proceded to mount the bed to sit in the center, facing him with legs crossed. “Let’s have a read, shall we?” Jensen said, positioning the book in the space between his thighs.

“No,” Misha grumped, making a grab for it, but Jensen whisked it behind him and promptly sat on it.

“Uh-ah.” Jensen shook his head. “Show me your license, and I’ll give it back.” The shit-eating grin accompanying the ransom request was enough to treasonously quirk Misha's lips.

“You’re a dick,” he declared, and Jensen danced his brows in agreement. “Fine, give me the book and I’ll show you.”

Jensen’s answer was entirely too cheerful. “Nope. Other way 'round. You’ve shown yourself as untrustworthy, so I’m taking precautions.”

Misha rolled his eyes and growled, then opened his wallet and pried his license from its sleeve. Strategically, he held it up just out from his right shoulder, so as Jensen stretched across to take it, Misha made a twisting swoop with his left hand for the now partially exposed journal.

In his haste, he’d failed to calculate for them both being off balance. He grabbed the book but listed and fell, Jensen gripping his right wrist and following his movement down as Misha landed on his side. They tussled, squirming for a moment before ending up on an angle, Misha half pinned by Jensen’s ribs but still holding the small blue-bound book just out of arm’s reach of his captor. Before he could get lost in the eyes hovering above his, he flung with a flick hard enough it skidded across to the opposite wall and out of the danger he was now in.

They lay there, almost panting despite the wrestle being brief. Misha held himself alert and rigid, but his tongue reflexively darted over his lower lip.

Jensen’s focus trailed it from only a foot away. “This is bad,” the mouth above him whispered after a suspended moment.

“Is it?” Misha breathed, lifting his chin in a challenge.

Jensen's pupils flared, then he swallowed. “You play dirty.”

Misha raised one eyebrow. “Pot, meet kettle,” he parried. He was dimly aware the music in the background had stopped, leaving the pulse thudding in his ears the only sound while they teetered on a knife edge.

Eventually, Jensen broke their stare, his gaze traveling up Misha’s arm to the card still held tightly in his palm. Jensen unwrapped his fingers from Misha’s forearm and plucked the license away, shifting his weight to lean more heavily propped across Misha’s stomach and bringing it close enough to see. “Now I see why you put up a fight, this is heinous,” he observed, his voice loosening and his body following suit.

Folding his released arms behind his head, Misha took a deep breath and stretched mildly, trying to do the same—in as much as he could while anchored under the tipsy and dangerously flirtatious recent object of his interest. “Are you contracted to the mob?” Jensen went on, “‘cause you look like a Russian gangster’s apprentice.”

Misha laughed, a low rumble that made them both shake. “Is that a bad thing?” he hedged.

“I dunno. Depends who the fuck Dmitri is.” Jensen squared him with a look of mock alarm. “You're in witness protection, aren't you?”

“Damn, my cover is blown,” Misha said, suppressing a smile. “Now I'll have to move out.

Jensen’s gaze turned, the question in his eyes turning liquid as Misha found himself in another staring match. His skin began to prickle with expectation and he almost welcomed it. Jensen was correct;  _this was very bad._

“Uh, my Mom—” he began, in an effort to perforate the thickening air between them, “—technically Misha’s a nickname, but it’s the only name I’ve ever been called, despite the different one on my birth certificate.”

His roommate blinked. “I can see why. You don’t look like a Dmitri.”

“What does a ‘Dmitri’ look like?” Misha probed, his top lip curling again.

Jensen’s did the same, dimples puckering. “This fucken psycho,” he answered, flipping the license around to Misha’s view.

Misha’s smile stretched as he lifted an arm to take it, fingers spidering over Jensen’s as it was delivered into the curl of his palm. Their hands loitered in the air.

“I should go,” Jensen murmured.

Misha hummed, tendering surrender of the moment. In just a few minutes he'd become pliable under Jensen’s reclined form, and he could feel the slackness mirrored in his roommate’s reluctance to move. He did though, eventually curling upright and disembarking the bed on the opposite side to wander around the end and bend for his shoes. Misha stayed exactly where he was, the absence of Jensen’s weight a heaviness all it’s own.

They didn’t say another word, the darting look Jensen cast him from the doorway as he left punctuating the easy silence of his departure.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

Sunday morning dawned bright, sunlight reaching long fingers towards Misha’s bed through gaps in the curtains. He blinked awake and rolled onto his back, letting his hand drift down to the impressive wood that had roused along with his consciousness.

Objectively, he knew he should resent the way Jensen had flirted with him the night before. He should dampen down the desire flaring deep in his belly remembering his roommate’s restraining frame, his mouth—soft and puckish—poised just out of reach. Instead, he let the memories fuel the strokes of his hand, his dick arching into his touch.

To his credit, he did _try_ to commandeer his arousal into one of his more familiar fantasies - one that didn’t involve the unconsenting green-eyed six-foot acquaintance he shared a home with. But the sensations, no matter how amorphous he attempted to keep them, always swelled when thoughts of Jensen cut through.

It was only in the shame-laced aftermath, lying with cooling splashes smearing the sheet, that he came to the conclusion it didn’t matter. He’d never felt this before; lust he was intimately familiar with and welcomed even when it was unrequited, and though he suspected his heart was suited to investing in someone, he’d never been afraid of having of wearing it on his sleeve. But never in his short adolescent or adult life had he experienced the kind of voltage conducted in the air between them the night before. It was like every part of him down to an atomic level was made to be in that moment, to respond whatever it was about Jensen that turned him inside out.

And just maybe that was the point of it all, he thought, cocooned in the languid aftermath of orgasm where nothing much hurt. Maybe this was all revealing something to him he hadn’t known, waking up a dormant part of himself so that next time, when the timing was right—whoever happened to be in his magnetic field—he’d know not to accept _anything less than this._

He thought he could accept, philosophically, that for whatever reason Jensen was not the answer here. That maybe he’d merely strutted into Misha’s path to pose a question.

Resolving that ‘what will be’ and he was merely along for the ride left him feeling assured and gratified as he cleaned up in the shower and bundled his bedding into his arms. Jensen’s door was barely ajar as Misha crossed to the cupboard laundry beside the bathroom, so he stuffed his sheets in the washer and left the apartment without disturbing him until he returned from the coffee shop twenty minutes later with two large cups nestled in a tray.

“I could marry you,” Jensen declared when he turned to Misha stepping into the room after issuing the door frame with a cursory knock.

“That’s the most inadequate proposal I’ve ever received,” he answered, handing Jensen his drink.

Jensen’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Yeah? Get’em frequently huh?”

Misha smirked, then paused for a moment. “I'm not sure I'm the marrying type,” he admitted candidly. In truth, his first (and last) proposal occurred in the 7th grade when Tracy Horvat had declared him marriage worthy and volunteered herself. He'd laughed in her face, which had abruptly ended a blissful three weeks of meeting for ice cream after school and holding hands on her Mom's couch while they watched DVDs. But the idea of permanently settling with someone to share in his hopefully long life had always seemed like an unreasonable expectation at best, and what was the point if one had no expectation of permanence?

“Noted,” Jensen replied thoughtfully, before turning his attention to fiddle with his cup, wiping a smear of foam from the lid. “So, um…sorry for bugging you last night.”

Taking a sip of his tea, Misha smiled against the rolled paper rim. That was an interesting way to put it.

“You’re a chatty drunk. It’s...cute,” he replied, causing Jensen’s eyes to rise sharply. He shrugged for good measure, diverting what they both knew Jensen was attempting to apologize for along with the reference he made.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you to it,” he added brusquely, turning for the doorway. “I’ll fix dinner tonight if you’re around.”

Jensen rolled his head back and gave the ceiling an imploring look. “Can’t see myself leaving this chair all day. So yeah, thanks.”

Misha nodded and breezed out.

 

 

“Can I ask you something?”

Misha looked up from the low tide of amber in his glass to see Jensen eyeing him curiously from his desk chair. They’d all been in Jensen’s room, the two bandmates dueling with chords and talking shit while Misha played spectator and nursed a bourbon, thinking there were less pleasant ways to while away a Wednesday night.  Then Rob had wandered off to take a phone call and never made it back, leaving Misha unduly aware he was sprawled across Jensen’s bed.

“Sure,” he answered, the intent in Jensen’s tone making him not sure at all.

Jensen pretended to take a sudden interest in the tuning pegs of his guitar while Misha waited for him to continue. “That night, downtown, when you took off and stayed with Alex—”

“Yes?” Misha prompted when Jensen trailed off.

“You came back different. Happier.”

Misha tried to figure out if he was supposed to find a question in Jensen’s halting observation. “I did?”  Jensen finally looked at him and gave an inconspicuous shrug, but said no more. “I suppose seeing her was helpful. It allowed me to dump some of my baggage, I guess. So yes, you’re not wrong.”

Jensen nodded. “I was worried, for a while—that me being weird had driven you into the arms of your ex,” he added, the accompanying smile shaky.

 _So that’s the question,_ Misha guessed.

“No,” he confirmed, then took a moment to revise. “You’d confused me, sure—you always have—but seeing her made me realize I’d moved beyond who she’d left, and that more than anything I’d been mourning the friendship we had, which was somehow sacrificed as soon as we decided to start sleeping together.”

Jensen chewed his bottom lip. “You think it was a mistake? Getting together?”

Misha took a turn to nod, hoping it would reassure Jensen that he was okay with their own budding, platonic friendship. Jensen merely looked him over and continued to worry at his lip. "Hmm,” he eventually hummed.

“You weren't weird, by the way,” Misha appeased further. He figured they were passed the awkwardness and he didn't want Jensen to harbor any lingering guilt. “You didn't—” he searched for the right word, and settled on “—scare me,” with a lopsided smile.

Jensen huffed, then stretched to cross his ankles on the side of the bed. “I upset you though,” he maintained.

 _Are we going to have this conversation?_ Misha asked him silently. _Why are we having this conversation?_  “Briefly,” he admitted, “but, you had your reasons, whatever they were.”

A defensive frown clouded Jensen's forehead. “You didn’t ask, or give me a chance to share them,” he said, bordering on curt.

Something inside Misha gave way and he instinctively lashed back. “You floored me one minute, and then retracted what you said the next. I had whiplash.”

“I didn’t retr— Is _that_ what you thought I was saying?”

Misha startled. “You mean you weren’t going back on saying you, um— you had—” Misha found himself wanting shrink and drown in the dregs of his drink. “—feelings?” he finally mumbled.

Jensen took a deep breath and blew it out harshly. “No! Well, yes, maybe. I dunno. I was a little mixed up ‘bout it,” he said, deflating at the end.

“Well that made two of us,” Misha muttered, then out of a delinquent destructive urge added, “You know, you never asked _me_ how I felt.”

The statement caught Jensen’s attention, his eyes flicking up before blinking and darting away. “Uh, no, I didn’t. Sorry.” He lifted the instrument he’d been hugging off his lap and leaned it against the wall, exchanging it for his glass sitting half-full on the bedside near Misha’s propped up head.

Misha concentrated on the duvet cover, tracing the intersections of the grey-blue-green geometric pattern. He should have been prepared for the next hesitantly spoken question, but he still failed.

“So ah, how did you feel?” Misha peeked at him through the long strands falling over his forehead. “Sorry, I’m a dick both ways,” Jensen amended, looking pained. “You don’t have to answer th—”

“I had...feelings,” Misha blurted to put them both out of their misery, but then firmly helmed them away from the past back on the course they’d charted. “But, I’m glad we’re friends now. It makes more sense,” he finished, turning up the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah— yeah, me too.” Jensen’s answering limp smile slowly turned into a shy grin. “I mean, we’re both finishing school in a couple of months.”

“And we have to live together until we do,” Misha added, letting the trace of levity reframe the conversation.

“Oh geez, Robbie gave me a lecture about that.”

“He did?”

Jensen cleared his throat and made a wincing expression. “He told me to go for it, but that I’d better be sure first because he’d rather come home to awkward sex noises than an awkward break-up.”

Misha let out an embarrassed yelp of laughter and hid his face in his palm, his brain just jumping clear of veering onto the track where _what kind of sex noises_ was the next station. “Rob knew?” he groaned.

“Everyone knew, because all my friends are assholes,” Jensen said, confirming why Misha had felt he was the center of a conspiracy. Then he dropped his feet to the ground and leaned forward, his sudden soft, intent gaze drawing Misha’s breath in. “Misha, I...do you—”

“We’re _all_ assholes?” Rob objected, choosing that moment to finally return, the interruption making Misha blink.

“Yeah, you especially,” Jensen teased, barely missing a beat and instantaneously flicking a switch to plaster his usual amiable face back on.

Rob dropped his bottom lip and pout like a four-year-old, but Jensen played along, standing and wrapping an arm over his shoulders to capture his friend’s head under his armpit. “You know I love you best,” he said, tousling Rob’s hair and getting a coy grin out of him despite being in a headlock.

His two roommates began a good-natured scuffle. “This is my cue to leave,” Misha said roundly, resigned to the full day he had on campus the next day. “Night, guys,” he added, clambering off the bed.

Jensen gave him a contrived wink as he walked past. “Night, Dmitri,” he replied, as Misha ignored the flip in his stomach and refused to look back on his friend or what the intercepted question might have been.

“Who's Dmitri?” Rob’s muffled voice asked plaintively as he closed his bedroom door.

 

 

Misha found he was putting a lot of effort into ignoring little impulses over the next week and as the days wore on, failing with accumulating misery.

There was the drink they got after class then next day which was on its way to becoming a Thursday ritual, as was the way Jensen would swivel on the bar stool so his knee would angle into Misha’s thigh. His brain was fully aware that it was happening and advised him to retreat from the brushes that became a solid warm presence, but it was like he was increasingly addicted to the looks and the static charge of contact.

Just the sheer nearness of when they’d cross paths in the kitchen gave him a chemical hit, and he was successfully convincing himself that this was just how it was between them and he was okay with it, right up until he wasn't. Because as the days rolled on, each hit developed an edge that grew sharper, like a bad drug that never gave you as great a high as in the beginning and the side effects of which start to cloud any inherent euphoria. Soon all the not quite accidental graze of fingers, the sitting a little too close on the couch, or the way Jensen would focus on him when talking despite his eyes dipping to Misha’s mouth; each little rush he received ended in a soured drop entirely different to the frustration he had felt back when his unexpected attraction first made itself known.

To make things worse, Jensen simultaneously grew closed off and cautious unlike he’d been before. While physically he was often just inside Misha’s space, a little too tuned to where Misha was, otherwise he was reserved or back to playing a role where he tried to appear laid back and affable. It seemed contrived in a way it wasn’t with Rob, for instance, and Misha found it infuriating as well as confusing.

He tried to ignore that too, but he ended up by spending an hour in the library after his Wednesday tutorial staring into the depths of the third floor stacks wondering if Jensen was trying to draw a line between them (if so, for his own benefit or Misha’s) and furthermore, was the way Jensen’s knees spread and knocked into his last night when they were watching TV a subconscious betrayal of his intention to move away, or his way of letting Misha down gently? Or, worst of all, _just the way he was_ , which Misha had to learn to accept even if sometimes it caused him brief moments of anguish.

Unresolved sexual tension made for great fiction on television, Misha thought, but it sucked to live it, especially when living it meant actually living with it in the room across the hall.

For the first time in a while, he avoided going home for as long as he could, closing himself off in a corner cubicle with a pile of books, his laptop and the erratic melancholy of Schumann’s strings in his earbuds.

When he finally did make it home, he was intending to scrounge some canned soup and toast before heading straight to his room and continue the progress he’d made during a day of successfully talking to barely anyone outside of class. The proverbial road to hell ended in the kitchen when he found Rob and Matt hunched together while Jensen scattered shredded cheese over the second of two large pizzas.

“Just in time,” Jensen said brightly, looking over his shoulder as Misha rounded the corner and took in the scene.

“Time for….dinner? I wasn’t, uh—” Misha stumbled on his protest, before starting again with slight incredulity, “—you’re makingpizza?”

“Yep. That’s a thing you can do, ya know,” Jensen replied humorously. “And to try out Matt’s new toy.”

Misha looked across at the others as Matt wiggled the object in question, a shiny device held in his right hand.

“Matty bought a vaporizer,” Rob explained with a wild grin. “So we’re christening it before we have a practice tonight.”

Misha eyed them all closer. “Looks like I’m late for the christening,” he observed before looking back at the glossy-eyed cook.

“You caught us,” Jensen said, a silken smile spreading across his face. “You in?”

An excuse jumped into Misha’s mouth and temporarily lodged there. He was largely ambivalent about the effects of marijuana and had thought he wasn’t in the mood for people, especially his tall quicksilver roommate measuring him with a look of expectation. “Sure,” he answered, swallowing his initial inclination. Maybe a scenic detour within his mental landscape might help.

“That’s the spirit,” Jensen nodded before returning industriously to his task.

By the time he’d rid himself of his backpack, shoes, and socks after the warm spring day, then stopped by the bathroom, the pizzas were bubbling in the oven and the others were in the middle of a round of inhaling from the device which Misha had to confess to having not used before. “Um, how do I—?” he began when Matt handed it to him.

“Bit like a pipe, but your lungs aren’t going to hate you,” Matt said confidently.

“That’s...not bad,” Misha noted after the easy draw, slowly blowing out the wispy cloud and barely needing to suppress an urge to cough. He handed it on to Jensen, fingers wrapping around his as he was relieved of it.

A half hour later and they’d moved to the living room and dispensed with the food in record time—Jensen having declared himself a master of food preparation to which everyone wholeheartedly agreed—and were following up with a beer while listening to some new music Rob was insisting was the absolute most genius composition he’d ever heard. Jensen sat nearby on the couch, slouching closer to Misha’s shoulder with every round of the sleek instrument despite arguing animatedly with his best friend over what would be the singularly most perfect song to listen to at that exact moment like it was the most important point he ever had to make.

“All of them,” Matt countered dreamily, a painfully wide smile now permanently resident on his face. “Let’s just listen to all of them, why choose?” Then he looked at Misha. “Maybe Misha can choose,” he suggested.

Misha suddenly felt all eyes on him; he hadn’t said a single word in quite some time, content to just enjoy the volatility he’d been feeling melt away as the high gradually revealed itself, instead of settling on him like a weighted curtain like he’d experienced with weed before. He could maybe get used to it.

Jensen made a comical snorting noise. “Mish would put on some dead guy violin music.”

It took Misha a moment to process the nickname before he could go on the defensive. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, cowboy,” he said in a challenge, testily raising one brow. At least he thought he was - he really couldn’t be sure at the moment, his face felt weird and slow.

The sandy blonde head next to him turned and looked at him with a look of impish glee. “Go on then, “ Jensen responded blithely, “prove it.”

Misha stared back, promptly forgetting there were others in the room, then hauled himself off the couch and walked around the end. “Coming?” he said, pausing mid-step.

Jensen pushed off the seat and followed, picking up both their beers on the way before Misha led them down the hall, trying to ignore the poorly muffled giggles behind them while figuring out what to put on to prove his point. Or even what his point was.

Walking straight over to where his ancient iPod was docked to his even more ancient speakers, he thumbed the wheel until he saw a piece that seemed like as good as any, then hit play. When he turned, Jensen had settled himself on the bed, head propped on the right-hand pillow and looking for all the world like he’d fallen asleep in the intervening seconds.

As the first wind notes began to entwine the air Misha joined him, mirroring Jensen’s pose of laced hands and crossed, bare ankles.”Lying down is good,” Jensen declared emphatically once Misha had positioned himself. He had to agree but didn’t out loud, getting caught in the music washing over him with its delicate beginning instead. He felt he could hear the lilt of every instrument, follow each section of the orchestra as the sounds blended together in perfect coordination. Then they lifted the incoming choral voices and made them fly, and Misha thought it completely wonderous that humans could make something filled with such raw yet elegant complexity purely as art. Then he had to remind himself he was mildly blitzed and his perspective was probably compromised as much as it was enhanced.

He’d almost forgotten Jensen, supine and unmoving next to him until the second movement began with a tempo change and the mattress began shaking along with his companion's silent laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, looking sideways.

“Dude, this is so depressing. What the fuck are we listening to?”

Misha chuckled in return. “Mozart’s Requiem,” he answered. “You might be the first person to find it amusing.”

“Dead guy music about dying? It’s hilarious,” Jensen insisted, then suddenly stilled, turning his face to open his slitted eyes. “It’s kinda intense, man,” he added seriously. “It was giving me the heebs for a minute there.”

Misha fumbled for the remote and turned the volume down so the tenor faded into the background. “Sorry, it is a little hardcore,” he apologized. “You wanna go back? Or I can put something else on?”

Jensen continued focus on him with an even squint. It began to be unnerving. “What do _you_ want, Misha?” he asked.

 _YOU_ immediately scrolled through his mind like an old windows screensaver, followed by _a cup of tea,_ then _cookie dough ice cream._ “Is that an existential question?” Misha answered, averting his brain’s imminent derailment with food cravings.

His companion frowned, but his lips quivered. “You’re a tough nut to crack, ya know that?”

“Uh, I am?”

Jensen’s bare forearm waved over, his pinky finger nudging Misha’s hand as it lay on his stomach with a series of strange staccato jabs. “I used to think you didn’t like me.”

Misha’s brows hiked as his eyes widened. “I always thought you didn’t like me.”

“What? Dude, why?” Jensen barked. _Jab_ \- _Jab._ It seemed like the most natural thing to do to flip over his hand.

The answering slide of Jensen’s fingertips across his palm was almost preordained. “You’d always look at me, like—I don’t know. Like you wanted me to vanish,” Misha explained.

Jensen’s dry fingers dipped into the hollows between his and carved the path to the padded tips before drifting back to the heart line. “Well...shit,” he said, lids blinking as he processed. “I was probably just trying to work you out, ‘cause when you weren’t giving me these looks like you were seeing straight into my soul, you were avoiding me.”

It was Misha’s turn to laugh, hearty and loud. Jensen grinned. “What?” he demanded even as his little caresses continued, thumb tracing the pad below Misha’s down to circle his wrist and back. Somewhere at the back of his sleepy consciousness, he knew he’d have to reconcile this later but for now, it just felt...nice, and right. And too easy.

  
He laced the scouting fingers between his and squeezed for a moment before turning Jensen’s hand over in the air, taking over the dance. “I was avoiding you,” he said, studying their fingernails catching the soft lamplight.

“Great,” said Jensen dramatically, more bemused than sarcastic. “I don’t blame you. I kinda knew I wanted to sleep with you about a week after you moved in, but I figured you were straight and I had to try not to resent it, or, ya know - make it weird.” Misha froze for a moment at the words, long enough so Jensen noticed. “Sorry man, I talk too much when I’m fucked up,” he added, pulling his hand away.

Misha refused to let him, holding on until Jensen slackened. They were just getting somewhere.

“When did you know you weren’t? Straight, I mean,” he asked, purposefully changing the subject while rubbing his thumb over his roommate’s knuckles.

“Looking back? Always,” was the reply, delivered without hesitation, and maybe a trace of relief. “But I had hangups about it for a long while—ones I tried to cover up with pretty girls, mostly blonde cheerleaders.” Misha risked meeting his eyes. “I know, clichéd right?” Jensen added, smiling again. “Don’t get me wrong; I love women and their unpredictability, and their—” this time he did gently drop Misha’s hand to motion a distinctly curved, wavy shape in the air. Then he adjusted to his side, propping his ear on a bent arm before continuing. "But now I’ve had enough half-assed relationships and hookups to know I want someone to have fun with, watch a game with...and someone I know I can be open with and at the same time who’s not too gentle with me.” He looked Misha squarely in the eye. “Which is why I've been lying low for a while - I keep crushing on emotionally unavailable guys.”

Misha felt Jensen’s toes travel his arch to brush against the top of his left foot, and swallowed. “Like me?” he clarified.

Jensen reached out to sweep back the hair from Misha’s forehead. “You’re...different,” he answered, completely unhelpfully.

“You’re frustrating,” he murmured before he could stop himself, but Jensen’s eyes crinkled as his smile stretched.

“So why did you invite me down here?” Jensen artfully parried.

Misha was caught for a moment like a deer in the headlights. “Apparently I like being sexually frustrated,” he said dryly, regretting it the second it was out in the air, Jensen’s mirthful expression turning pensive. But it only fell further when Misha backtracked, explaining, “but it’s okay. Que sera sera; whatever will be will be.  What isn’t meant to, won’t.”

Jensen hummed and nodded, though Misha wasn’t sure what he was agreeing with. It was then he noticed shadows outside the half-open door caught in a whispered argument. Jensen must have heard too, rolling to his back before crouching to sit. “It’s alright assholes," he declared, "nothing’s happening. We’re just friends."

Rob and Matt all but fell over their sugary grins and into the room. “Sorry we didn’t want to...uh—” Rob began.

Matt helped him out with “You guys need to get to practice.”

“Crap,” Jensen said, scratching the back of his neck before standing up. “Later, Mish.”

_We’re just friends._

“Later,” he echoed as the three of them trotted out of the room. He waited until he heard the front door shut before he rolled off the bed to go put the kettle on, noticing for the first time the two bottles of beer on his bedside, opened but barely tasted and going flat in what had to be the stupidest fucking metaphor ever.

 

 

The next two days were exactly as he’d feared.

He woke up with the ghosts of the odd, surreal touches from the night before and resolved to come up with an excuse to not meet Jensen after class Thursday. He did run into him at home where he was much the same as he’d been previous to their stoned conversation; aloof and somewhat downcast. The next morning he couldn’t avoid him when, after tossing and turning all night, he went to get a pharmaceutical coffee. He’d assumed Jensen would be on campus, but he was there behind the counter.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” he said as he waited at the corner of the large gleaming coffee machine.

Jensen’s dimples popped as he dispersed a frown and worked away, swirling a jug of frothed milk. “Yeah, I can tell,” he answered, and Misha hurriedly tried to school his face. “Ditched class to pick up a shift when someone called in. You okay? Big day ahead?”

Misha shrugged. “Tired, I guess. Going to write today. My first draft is this close to being done,” he offered conversationally, holding up his thumb and forefinger in front of his nose.

“Sounds promising, “ Jensen replied, handing him his cup. Misha took it in both hands, trying not to let them touch. “Hey, we thought we might have some people ‘round tomorrow night. Would you be okay with that?”

“People?”

“Yeah, just the usual suspects and a few hangers-on. Nothin’ too wild.”

“That’s fine. Should I make plans or—?”

Jensen looked momentarily horrified. “No, dude, it’s your house! And you gotta be there; Robbie has this, uh...this thing he wants to do. For Mel.”

  
Misha nodded, though he really wasn’t sure he was in the right frame of mind for a party he couldn’t escape from. “Catch you later,” he said, receiving a tight smile as he turned away and Jensen moved on to the next order.

By the time he’d done a few hours work and something to eat, he’d reached full mope, the thoughts filling the back of his mind clamoring around the more he tried ignoring them. Opening his journal didn't help either, the word vomit that would often help him purge his emotions staying trapped and curdling inside, his rationalization from only a few days before mocking him. Deciding he needed a change of scenery and probably some help, he dialed Felicia. She didn’t pick up, but within a couple of minutes his phone vibrated with her return call.

“Hey, Leese.”

“Hi, stranger! I was getting worried, I hadn’t heard from you in a while.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry, it’s my fault too. How’re you doing?”

Misha took a deep breath. “Actually, I could use my best friend. You busy tonight?”

“I don’t have to be,” she assured.

“Don’t cancel on my—”

“No!” she interrupted firmly. “I’d rather see you, cross my heart.” Misha was sure she was doing just that. “Do we need a alcohol? You sound like you need alcohol.”

“I need alcohol.”

“Okay, I’m on it! Um...5.30-ish?”

“Perfect. See you then.”

“Bye—ee!”

Misha hung up, feeling marginally better.

By the time he knocked on his friend’s door he was all festering turmoil again, which apparently was all over his face.

“Oh, dear!” Felicia said when she opened the door. “That bad?”

“You said something about a drink?” he evaded.

“I have all the drinks,” she confirmed, leading him to the tiny kitchen. He decided on an offered dark bottle of red wine, letting the rich, peppery taste sit on his tongue as they dispensed with small talk.

Finally, halfway through his second glass, she cornered him again, wrapping a hand around his knee in concern.

“Meesh, you going to get it off your chest? Because you look like you need to.”

He took a long swallow and looked across at her. “I think I’m going to have to move out. I—I don’t think I can do it anymore.”

“What!” she exclaimed. “What’s happened?”

“You know how I told you I didn’t know if I even liked him?”

“Yes.  He was an allergy,” she said, allowing herself an eye-roll. “Which of course was a—”

“Leese—” He cut off whatever tangent she about to launch into. “I like him.”

“Oh. Like, _like_ like him?”

 “I really _like_ like him." Saying it aloud only made the vice in his chest tighten, but it also brought a kind of relief. He put his glass on the floor and hugged his knees, bracing his crumbling edges as he added the crux. "But nothing is ever going to happen. I'll never know what this means.”

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I overindulged a little and this ended up really long! Consequently, I was having issues editing the pacing and finally decided to split this chapter in two. Stay tuned!

 

 

“Oh, hon,” Felicia commiserated, clasping his arm. “You better fill me in.”

So he did. On how somewhere along the way, while he was busy concentrating on turning the entire infatuation into some progressive life experience and insisting to his brain his roommate was just some inexhaustibly attractive new friend he could keep at arm’s length despite wishing he was perpetually within arm’s reach, his feelings were grouping together behind his back and plotting to send him careening head over heels into something so much worse that he was prepared for. He told her how Jensen didn’t seem to know the effect he had on Misha—not entirely—but how almost angry he was that Jensen didn’t seem to be being true to himself either with his confusing push me-pull you towards and away from Misha within the same breath and just-out-of-reach touch. He added how Jensen had casually confessed he’d wanted to sleep with him and how glad he’d been to be laying down at the time because it made him feel like he’d just gone over a crest in a roller coaster, and he fucking hated roller coasters.

Then he told her that he doesn’t know what to do about it—any of it, because Jensen has made it clear that friendship is the most he will accept even if he does sometimes wish for more, which intellectually Misha can appreciate, but philosophically it's driving him crazy because why not jump off the cliff when the fall could end up showing you how to fly.

“Can I move on to your couch?” he asked near the end of the bottle, half joking. Okay, maybe three-quarters serious.

Felicia laughed, but her eyes had nothing but sympathy. “If it comes to that, of course,” she assured. “It’s only...six weeks? Less? Do you know yet what you’re going to do come the end of semester?”

“Not entirely, though I think I need a break from school. And yes I know, I should just be able to put it aside and work through, but…” He gave her a pained look.

“Are you in love with him?”

“No! We barely— That's...impossible.” Felicia's face scrunched dubiously. “But, it's not outside the realms of possibility? If I let myself—if he…” He ran out of words, suspended and numb. He needed a reboot.

“Well...fuck,” was all she had to offer.

“Yeah.”

“He's an idiot.”

Misha made a scoffing noise because the bigger idiot was clearly himself.

She bit her lip for a moment. “Let's go out!” Felicia suggested, adding “Just to eat, not to people,” when he opened his mouth to protest.

They went and sat down at the nearby diner catering mainly to the campus population, then picked up another bottle of wine on the walk back, dispatching it easily. When Misha made moves around midnight to bike home his friend insisted he stay, instructing him to take one side of her bed rather than squeeze on the couch, and if he was honest it felt nice to share that space with someone again even if it was entirely platonically. She also gently took his phone away when he dithered about texting Jensen to say he was out for the night because she was the best friend anyone could ever ask for - a fact which he blearily told her several times.

He woke up early Saturday morning reminded of why he’d learned once before to avoid drinking red wine to excess, and regretting his lapse in judgment as one of many in the last few weeks. He hadn’t come to any conclusion regarding his living arrangements, but the determination to effect change by keeping to himself and move out of the no-man’s-land he and Jensen seemed to find themselves had germinated in his resolve.

Before Misha left her apartment he invited Felicia to the party as moral support, but she already had plans - ones he insisted she couldn’t cancel for him this time even though she wavered. Then he spent the trip home fortifying himself for the evening ahead, which included shamefully harboring the urge to ditch it, and bitterness at Jensen for making him uncomfortable in his own home. He knew it wasn’t fair, but it helped anyway.

Eternally grateful the apartment was empty when he got home, he made a brief stop in the kitchen for something for his headache on his way back to bed and proceeded to doze for a good four hours, waking refreshed and decidedly more optimistic. Taking a long shower, he spent ten long uncomfortable minutes in front of the steamed mirror, ruminating on what to do next. Realizing it was beyond time he made some decisions about what to do with his life once he’d finished this degree, the impetus propelled him into his first act of control; taming his overgrown hair.

 

 

Misha arrived back from the barber carrying a takeaway burrito to find he’d been narrowly beaten by his roommates, unpacking bags of snack foods and various beverages piled on the table. Jensen did a satisfying double take when Misha greeted them by shrugging off his denim jacket and asking what need to be done.

“Wow, you have a job interview or something?” Rob asked, motioning to Misha’s clean-shaven jaw and cropped hair, whisked to one side.

Misha pulled a non-committal face. “I’m applying for some, yeah.”

“Yeah? What ya going to go for?”

He glanced at Jensen, focused on peeling beer bottles from their carry box. “I’ll start with spamming NGO’s. If it get really lucky, I might be eligible for a posting abroad.”

Rob looked impressed. “Cool. Like where?”

“Anywhere, really. I need a change - get out in the real world for a while.” He tried not to look at Jensen again, only daring to let his eyes drift after the hard slope of his shoulders as he paced to the kitchen. “Can I do anything? Sorry, I picked myself up dinner.”

“No man, you’re all good. I think we’re gonna go grab something before everyone arrives, right Jay?”

“What’re we doin’?” said Jensen, walking back towards them.

“Food.”

“Food,” he nodded, then finally met Misha’s eyes for the first time, carrying a sanitized smile.

“‘kay, let's do that,” Rob declared.

Jensen disappeared down the hallway, saying he needed to swap clothes and leaving the two of them waiting. “So I heard you have something planned for tonight? For Melanie.”

Rob began to fidget with his shirt cuff. “Yeah, it’s her birthday tomorrow. I’m taking her out, ya know? But I...uh kinda wrote her a song and I wanted to debut it for her tonight. With Jay’s help.”

“In front of all your friends?” Misha smiled. “That’s... sweet, and sounds terrifying.”

“Yeah I won’t lie, I’m having second thoughts,” Rob admitted, letting out a timid chuckle.

“You’ll do fine,” Jensen said, reappearing loudly to give his friend a hearty slap on the shoulder, “and you’re going to get so much birthday action tomorrow you’ll probably need intravenous fluids.”

“But it’s not _my_ birthday.”

Jensen gave him an oily wink. “Doesn’t matter buddy.”

Disconcerted by Jensen’s exaggerated behavior, Misha didn’t wait for them to depart, saying he’d catch them later and heading for his room so he could start trawling job databases for vacancies while he wolfed down his food. He must have gotten engrossed because it was over an hour later when voices alerted him to people in the house again. Still procrastinating, he saved some addresses and fired off an email to his Mom, then delayed further by sneaking across the hall to the bathroom to clean his teeth and rough up his hair a little, the shorter length feeling oddly satisfying between his fingers. Looking at his drab buttondown in the mirror, he decided on a last minute change of clothes, picking out his favorite faded black band tee and worn jeans, fraying at the hems. Then with a resigned sigh, he left his room.

Music was already playing with a dozen or so people dotted around the living area. Most of them he recognized, from either previous parties or that fateful night of the gig he attended. He skirted around the edge of the room until Matt appeared at his elbow, lodging a beer in his hand and pulling him into a conversation where a tall bear of a man named Jason cajoled him into telling him how school was going before they moved on to compare growing up in the rural East.

Throughout, Misha kept catching glimpses of Jensen laughing and chatting boldly—performatively even—sparing only the occasional glance in his direction. Not that Misha was looking but Jensen happened to be right in his eye line to the left of Jason's broad shoulder. Plus, the drink was proving more of a hindrance than a distraction, neither his stomach nor his state of mind welcoming the idea of more alcohol so soon after the previous night.

Even still slightly seedy he felt charged; obstinately poised for whatever was to come next beyond the varsity cloister. He didn’t want to drink and dull that edge, and he acutely did not want to be here right now, stuck with all the friends of the person he was maybe halfway to being a little in love with despite his better judgment, especially when the mere imperfect possibility of something more was probably smothering any real hope he and Jensen could ever truly be friends either.

But he didn't feel he could just leave, so he continued to sip at his bottle to make it look like he was drinking and put in as much effort as he could muster to participating in small talk over the constant background music.

At one point Briana found her way over to him, just as he’d backed into a dark corner to have a moment to himself. Having seen her and Jensen with their heads together for a while, he put himself on guard when she made a beeline for him. “Mysterious Misha!” she said, merrily making a pretense of looking him over, “Who knew last time you had such a svelte figure under all those layers.”

“Uh—”

“Shit. What I meant to say was ‘you’re looking well, better than when we met.’” She leaned in to stage whisper near his ear, “Sorry, I’ve been drinking,” then held up her whiskey glass next to her dimpled smile as proof.

“Thank you. I think,” he answered, feeling a blush creep up his neck. “Nice to see you again, Briana.”

“And you too.” She gave a tiny curtsey then laid painted nails on his bare forearm for a moment. “Now, don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been sucking on the same drink for the last hour and then hiding over here. You aren’t feelin’ it?”

Misha playfully stared her down. “Are you always this direct?”

She shrugged. “No, but I like you, and I don’t like people I like feeling left out.”

“I’m not feeling left out,” he protested, twisting the bottle between his hands. “I just have other things on my mind.” She raised an inquisitive brow. “I’m also still a little hungover from last night,” he added candidly.

“Ah, I see. Big night?”

He huffed. “Nah, just pouring out my problems to a friend, aided by a number of bottles of wine.”

“That explains it,” she remarked absently, looking over to where a loud yelp chased by a roar of laughter had occurred. Misha followed her line of sight to see Melanie recovering her drunken poise from some near accident.

“Explains what?” he pressed, trying to draw her attention back.

“Oh—uh, fuck. He was messaging me late last night,” she admitted, throwing her head in Jensen’s direction, who was currently in the center of the room with his back to them. “He was like ‘do I text him, do I not?’” She made weighing motions with her hands, then shrugged. “Sorry, me and my big mouth.”

He weighed the information himself. “What did you advise, just out of interest?”

“I just told him ‘you do you and the rest will sort itself out.'”

Misha nodded, but his inner conflict must have shown on his face because Briana softened, slanting her head and screwing her mouth reflectively to one side. “I know he can seem like he has it all worked out, but he’s too careful with himself sometimes, and everyone else.”

He blinked at her and suddenly wished he felt like drinking after all, so he wouldn’t have to taste the bitter trace on his tongue her attempt at insight evoked. “It’s too late,” he blurted, “the moment has past—if there ever was one. School’s nearly done and I....I’ll be leaving soon.”

The tug at the side of her mouth was sad, her lips parting like she wanted to say more, but then she changed up her tone. “Aww, that’s too bad! I was looking forward to getting to know you better.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “another life, maybe.”

“Maybe,” she winked back at him.

“You good for a drink? I’m gonna go get rid of this,” he said, pulling a sour face at the bottle in his sweaty hand.

Briana waved him away and sidled back over to the group Jensen was with, leaving Misha to weave towards the kitchen. Once there he took a deep breath and tipped the tepid remains of the beer down the sink. From the lounge a handful of cheers went up as the music volume soared with a new song, too loud for him to know he’d been followed until a shadow fell across his hands.

“You’re wasting the hospitality?” Jensen said over Misha’s shoulder.

Misha dipped his head and huffed wryly. Then he turned, crossing his arms. “Guess it’s lost on me tonight.”

Jensen’s eyes scanned his face, Misha holding them like he was holding a line of defense. Yeast-sweet breath accumulated under his nose, but his roommate didn’t give any indication how drunk he was. Lips pressed firm, Misha couldn’t have guessed at how long stayed still as the music continued to thump up against the walls.

He was, however, the first to crumble. “I hung out with Felicia last night, and we—I— drank too much.”  Jensen nodded faintly. “Sorry, I probably should let you know where I was,” Misha acquiesced further.

“Whatever man, I’m not your keeper.”  It was said kindly, accompanied by a boyish grin, but the words still pierced into Misha’s skin like tiny fishhooks.

He hummed in agreement and let his eyes fall to the floor. “Are you really gonna leave town?” Jensen added, a thread of ultimatum in the low timbre of his voice.

Misha raised his eyes again. “Yes,” he replied simply.

Jensen’s shoulders slumped, barely noticeable but distinct. “Not sure I like this cleaned-up look,” he said, lifting a hand towards Misha’s hair.

Misha flinched, a ball of peevish annoyance bouncing around his insides. “Don’t,” he warned at Jensen’s disorientated expression. “You can’t—I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“This!” Misha cried, pointing between in the too-small space between their chests. “Whatever the fuck this is, it’s… exhausting.”

“Sorry,” Jensen mumbled. “I—” he tried, his mouth quavering, fishlike, before he gave up.

“I thought it was fun,” Misha continued, words beginning to trickle like water over a rim. “I thought it was no big deal but— I’m going look at somewhere else to live.”

“You’re _what_?”

“Sorry.”

Misha darted round him, every fiber of his being wanting to get away. Arresting fingers reached inside his elbow but he yanked free, intent on going to his room and not coming out. “Misha!” he heard behind him, incensed and bewildered and spurring him on.

He stepped through his door and flung it behind him, expecting it to swing shut and dull the sound of the party and the roaring in his ears. Instead, Jensen’s voice followed him.

“Misha—”

“Go away, Jensen,” he pleaded, eyes closed and throat lumpy.

“I will, but I’d appreciate you explaining what the hell is going on. Don’t shut down on me, man. Not this time.”

He spun, indignant. “This time?” he asked darkly.

“C'mon, Mish, we keep having these... _moments_ , and then you just put up a wall. Let me in.”

“Let you in?” he repeated dumbly, his brain catching on the nickname before coiling again. “Let you— You're the one who keeps me on the end of a yo-yo, holding me at bay whenever we get close to something!” The words are spilling now, overflowing the glass he was tempted to just kick over so it all ebbs away.

Jensen stalked closer. “Are you kidding—!” He stopped mid bellow and inhaled sharply. “We’re really doing this now, huh,” he added, nodding his head in resignation. Jensen's cheek ticked while Misha shrugged. “Everything you did and said told me to keep my distance," he grumbled. Misha blinked. “Oh c’mon man: you offered me your best friend on a plate, whenever I got close or touched you, you’d freeze, and you said yourself you weren’t ready to move on after your ex...not to mention how you regretted getting together because it ruined your friendship.”

Misha’s jaw hung loosely at the truth for a few moments. “But—but you _knew_ I was attracted to you,” he accused, “and then you said you just wanted to be friends.”

His roommate rolled not just his eyes but his whole head back on his shoulders. “ _You_ wanted to be friends too. It made ‘more sense’, remember?” he barked, air quotes and all.

“Nothing about you makes sense!” Misha thundered back, but most of the vehemence was directed inward. He looked at the floor and took a moment to be thankful the music was so loud that their voices would be drowned out to the other occupants of the house.

Jensen turned on his heels and folded his hands behind his head, stretching out tension. Misha’s eyes climbed his back until he slowly rotated again. “Every time I wanted to say something, or do…something,” Jensen began again, quiet but immovable this time, “either I’d second guess myself or something else intervened. So I began thinking that must be for a reason.”

Misha frowned and took a few jagged breaths, trying not to drift into an argument about the kind fatalism he was himself guilty of.  “What did you mean by ‘I’m different’?” he asked, tacking the argument away from their burst of acrimony and tentatively finding Jensen’s gaze again.

The corners of Jensen’s mouth dipped cheerlessly. “Wish I knew how to answer that.” He hesitated, concentrating, then added, “You got under my skin. I wanted to be under yours.”

“You know you are,” Misha said flatly. “So why not—?”

“Honestly?”

“Please.”

“I knew you were giving me physical signals, but—I don’t want to be your experimental gay fuck-toy.” The bottom fell out of Misha’s stomach as Jensen’s jaw cinched. “I can’t do that again,” he added.

Misha watched as Jensen carefully cleared the storm from his expression. “You thought I was only interested in sex?” he asked eventually.

Palms flat, Jensen lifted them helplessly before letting them slap back to his thighs. “You keep telling me I’m confusing you,” he explained, taking an imploring step closer. “Dude, don’t you see?” he pleaded, catching Misha’s eye and holding it. “I can’t be the one to confuse you. I need to be the one who makes sense to you.”

Misha stood rooted to the spot on the floor, a pile of behind-door dust bunnies on one side and discarded clothes from the day on the other. From the living area, the music changed from shrill guitars to something more electronic, the deep rhythmic bass pumping through the walls like a slowed pulse that he held on to and let his synthesize with it. The room felt airless even though his lungs were working just fine.

His thoughts were chaos, Jensen’s words falling like tetris blocks in his mind leaving him frantically trying to make sure they slotted in the right order. Suddenly, Jensen advanced the last feet to stand crowding and expectant and _right there_. “What are you doing?” he asked warily, aware of the wall only a few inches behind him.

“I was gonna kiss you. If you want me to.”

He scoffed, disbelieving. “Isn’t that painfully fucking obvi—mmph”

Jensen’s mouth snuffed out the last irascible syllable with the tender, quick kiss Misha thawed into long enough to realize what was happening and then realize _what was happening._

With an anguished push, he shoved Jensen away who backed up, stung, then looked contrite. “Sorry,” he said.

“Don’t—! Don’t...say that.”

“Uh, okay.” Jensen’s expression was utterly lost, fists clenching at his sides.

“Lemme think for a second.” Misha pressed his lips together, feeling the imprint left behind. He didn’t actually need to think, but he wanted to be sure his thoughts were no longer going to interfere. “Are you sure?” he asked. “You weren’t sure before.”

“Do you need me to be?”

“No,” he replied, because he was old enough to know surety was a scarce thing in life. “Are you drunk?”

“No! I’ve had, I dunno, three beers? I’m not—Jesus, this is all me.”

Misha nodded and scanned Jensen’s pale face for a moment, the shadows in the room throwing every taut muscle into relief. Then the strain snapped and he crumpled, adrift and small in the middle of the room, looking at his feet. “Misha, please—” he asked, voice splitting like a green branch under snow.

Misha shifted to stand where their toes met, his roommate frozen still. “What’s changed?” he asked.

Jensen’s lashes trembled while he huffed a soft breath. “Not a damn thing. That’s the problem,” he answered, opening his eyes. “Nothing’s changed and we’ve wasted time.”

The six feet of supplication before him dissolved any last hesitation he felt. Misha tentatively leaned in to catch his lips, the flat of his hands following to find the curve of Jensen’s waist. He barely had time to fit the shape of Jensen’s mouth before Jensen was throwing everything back at him in an entirely different way than he'd had verbally minutes before, hungrily licking between his bite to find Misha’s tongue and curling a sturdy hand behind his head. It was an assailment, the slight weight and height differential throwing Misha for an experiential loop for a second until he capitulated to the devastating intent of the kiss and then he was _in_ , lock, stock and barrel.

It was Jensen however who released them first, pulling back just enough that Misha could break away if he needed to, though it was entirely unnecessary on Misha’s behalf. “No big deal, huh?” Jensen rasped, a shy, awed smile curving the bottom lip Misha couldn’t take his eyes off.

“What?” he whispered, before remembering his outburst in the kitchen. Any lingering fight had completely left him. “Oh.” He ran fingers down Jensen’s sides and snatching another quick, apologetic kiss, then explained, “I’m a terrible liar, even to myself.”

“Noted,” Jensen said as he cupped a hand under Misha’s ear to nose against his face. “You’re right, pretending we’re only flirting is not fun. This is much better,” he mouthed along his cheekbone, curling into Misha’s body. Then he scraped his teeth over Misha’s smoothed jaw and his brain shorted out.

“Can we stop talking?” he puffed, blindly searching for Jensen’s lips again, Jensen’s low moan of approval against his when he found them vibrating down his spine. Somehow he untangled his arms to wend fingers at Jensen’s nape and into his hair as they kissed, Misha supping at the warm, welcoming mouth and needing more. Needing everything.

This time, Jensen let Misha conduct, committing the taste and textures to memory just in case this was some awful anomaly or joke. Jensen stayed gentle and responsive, hands wandering and lips pliant until suddenly he wasn't and Misha was immobilized, arms somehow hijacked and folded neatly behind him as want was spilled into his mouth. Then he was cornered against the wall again, agreeably this time, with a roll of Jensen’s hips that stuttered any oxygen he had left behind his heart.

A stunned “Whoa!” from their right signified they weren’t alone. Abruptly hitting pause, they turned to see their other roommate performing a startled shuffle just inside the door. “Sorry! Um—geez. I was just—ah, I don’t mean to interrupt,” Rob continued to fret, his voice squeaky, “but I was just looking for you ‘cause of the thing...you know, although if you’re uh—”

“Is it time?” Jensen asked calmly like he didn’t have Misha pinned and sparking like a lit fuse and miserably desperate. “I’m good, if it’s time.”

 _No! Bad time! Not good!_ Misha’s whole being silently shrieked.

“Um, if you’re sure? I mean…it’s just...before Mel gets too wasted—”

Jensen finally eased off, just enough for Misha to feel the press of body heat shift and leave only armed need, acute but aimless.

“Two secs,” Jensen said to Rob, who gave a curt salute in response then turned to leave, only to spin and give them a clownish grin and double thumbs-up before slipping through the door.

“Sorry,” Jensen groaned, drooping to touch their heads together and panting a long sigh. Misha gave him a reassuring squeeze at the waist but couldn’t find his voice. “Don’t move out yet,” Jensen added, warm but urgent. Then with a final quick press to the corner of Misha’s mouth, he was gone.

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I toyed with upgrading the rating with this chapter, but ultimately decided to leave this as a hard M*  
> *Pun intended.

 

 

 

 

Misha stayed leaning against the wall, blood fizzing while trying to slow his breathing. The sudden, jumpy high he felt was making him shaky, and although checking his right hand revealed it wasn’t shaking at all, he decided it would be prudent to take a few moments to compose himself. Looking down, his shirt was all twisted over one hip but he dared not look in the mirror in case of what else he would see. He wasn’t even sure he’d recognize himself.

Hearing Rob’s voice replace the blaring music sharpened his scattered attention. A round of cheering laughter gave way to guitar notes as Misha smoothed at his hair and steeled himself to rejoin the party, deciding to divert into the kitchen on the way to find the drink he decided he needed after all in order to calm the fuck down.

A small crowd was circled around Melanie and his two housemates, so he hovered on the edge and attempted to focus on Rob’s earnest signing. It was a corny, quirky ballad that judging by the shocked pleasure on Melanie’s face was having the desired effect, though Misha lost track of the words when he caught Jensen’s eye, strumming while perched on the arm of the couch.

The smile that broke across Jensen’s face was all Misha needed to know the level of trouble he was in was infinitely more terrifying and intoxicating than he’d feared, his own cheeks bulging in response before he hid his grin behind a swallow of beer. It was only during the last bars Misha broke his eyes away, happening in the process to catch Briana’s a few feet to his left, her brow arched and expression sage. Flushing, he dropped his eyes and pretended to take an intense interest in the bottle in his hands before chugging the rest of it down, only looking up again when the subject of the serenade locked arms and lips with her boyfriend to the whoops and applause of the room.

He had no idea what to do with himself now, but given the thing that was at the forefront of his mind—’forefront’ possibly a gross understatement—was commandeered on the opposite side of the room by his friends, he couldn’t very well just skulk around staring. So, Misha threw himself with uncharacteristic vigor into making small talk while the music and chatter resumed. After a while it proved a successful distraction (helped by making short work of another three beers), giving him both space to think and preventing him from creeping back to his room in the hope his roommate followed him.

However, it didn’t stop their saturated gazes crossing and triggering looping memories: of Jensen’s mouth making short work of their apprehension and misgivings, or the regret and hope in disarray on Jensen's face when Misha had faced him down.

His thoughts and doubts all slammed to a halt when Jensen sidled next to him and slipped a palm over one shoulder, issuing a squeeze before settling closer to his spine. It was a friendly, familiar gesture, but when Jensen rubbed a thumb back and forth at the base of Misha’s neck while answering a question, he felt sure he lit up like a Christmas tree and everyone else would  _know._

People had begun to drift (and lurch) off, but Misha wasn’t sure the party had thinned out enough to get away with tugging the side-seam of Jensen’s shirt and demanding they resume their conversation in private. But when Jensen discretely clipped his elbow as he left to pick up his guitar and amble away, Misha took it as a signal to follow half a minute later.

The room’s occupant didn’t notice Misha had tailed him until he clicked the door shut, Jensen turning in relief from the corner where he’d leaned the instrument. “Oh thank fuck,” he said, mouth quirking. He took two rapid steps towards Misha then stopped, firing off a concerned, “Everything okay?”

Misha planted his fidgety hands in his back pockets. “Tell me that this is real,” he blurted, grateful to the warm glow emanating from his stomach for keeping the needy edge out of his voice.

Sauntering towards him again, Jensen tipped his head to one side and landed a hand on Misha’s hip. “I can tell you, or I can show you,” he said, smooth as caramel and just as syrupy. Misha relaxed, getting in an eye-roll but prevented from asking Jensen if that line usually worked for him by a series of feathered, teasing kisses dusting his lips  _and sure_ , that line definitely worked for him.

Impatience pressed Misha in, shuffling closer so his mouth could chase contact, his target obliging with a whiskey-laced sigh. It was different; leaning up just a shade, with the occasional brush of sandpaper skin. Alex had been almost his height but his roommate was taller, broader, and Misha almost felt Jensen was being unduly careful with him -  mellowed and reverent and sweet, with nothing of the frantic skirmishing of before.

It could have been one minute or ten, but he finally decided he needed to hit pause on their delicate, unhurried exploration.  A part of him still starved, and whether this was any more significant, he still needed to know.

“What now?” he asked, disentangling his fingers from where they’d somehow knotted the front of Jensen’s half-buttoned shirt.

“This not enough?” Jensen replied, affecting a pout.

“That’s not what I mean,” Misha protested, though he had to admit he wasn't exactly sure what he meant. However, presented with that impossibly full bottom lip, he plucked another kiss him from anyway. Then another.

“Stay with me tonight,” Jensen proposed against his mouth.

Misha’s stomach barrel-rolled with a whorl of desire and anxiety, then he buried a latent chuckle. “What?” Jensen asked, suspicious.

“What happened to not wanting to be my gay experim—”

“You  _really_ gonna throw that back at me? Now?” Jensen interrupted, Misha’s gaze catching on the glisten on the lips fending off a lopsided smile.

Misha merely batted his eyelashes.

“I may have just drunk too much of that weird green shit somebody brought, but I was serious before about wasted time,” Jensen added, absently massaging along Misha’s collarbone with the heel of one palm. “Stay. We can just hold hands —or cuddle. You can lecture me about Beethoven or whatever, or talk all night about our daddy issues—” He shrugged, looking thwarted.

“You’re really selling this,” Misha teased.

“Shuddup and say yes.”

“There’s a party in our house, thirty feet away...and you want to hide in here and snuggle?”

Jensen gave an exasperated whine and pulled Misha in to crush their mouths together, finishing with a scraping bite to his bottom lip. “Sold,” Misha conceded, lightheaded and blinking.

“Mmm good,” Jensen mumbled in relief, then turned businesslike. “Just lemme go do something and I’ll be back.” He brushed past before hovering at the door. “And if you ever tell my friends what I said about cuddling, I don’t fucking care how weirdly attractive and hot you are, I’ll make you regret it.”

Misha huffed, a short giddy sound and stood for a minute after Jensen left, feeling at a loose end. Opting to make a dash to the bathroom to relieve himself, he cleaned his teeth in what he felt was a stroke of genius before crossing to his room to check his phone. Putting it on to charge, he realized he was stalling, shallow breaths alerting him to his butterflies. It wasn’t so much the now as the later that concerned him, the turbulent revelations of the last twenty-four hours informing him there was the potential for—if not a world—at least a large continental mass of hurt.

Not that he could turn back now.

The worry skittered away the moment he turned to switch off his lamp to see Jensen leaning on the door frame, a shrinking smile greeting Misha’s look. “Did you think I’d changed my mind?” Misha enquired. He was only half joking.

“It occurred to me,” Jensen said, folding his arms. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

Canting his head, Misha contemplated Jensen’s reticent frame. "Have you?" he reluctantly asked.

"I don't know what now, but no."

Misha softened in relief, asking, “Are you just going to lurk, or would you like to come in."

“Is that an invitation?” Jensen quizzed, both cautious and dark.

“Well, you’re making me nervous standing there, and I was promised cuddling.”

Jensen's eye's smiled where his mouth didn't as he unfolded from his circumspect pose and latched the door behind him. With the party muffled it was abruptly too quiet, so Misha decided since they were in his room now it was up to him to circumvent the threatening awkwardness. He toed off his shoes and socks and walked around the bed, sliding on the opposite side and propping a hand under his ear. Then he patted the space beside him, smile more tremorous than he’d have liked.

Twisting out of his overshirt, Jensen shucked his footwear and crawled on to face him, arms folded across his front. Feeling every inch between them Misha studied him, hazy-eyed and inviting but arms goose-pimpling where the skin disappeared into his t-shirt. Then his lips parted.

“Misha?”

“Mmm?”

“Touch me.”

Whether it was simple begging or he needed something proven, the self-conscious whisper pierced Misha’s bubble of nerves and he reached forward to thumb the cushion of Jensen’s bottom lip. Jensen closed his eyes, so Misha shuffled to follow with his mouth, the quick press welcomed with a sigh peppered by tiny shudders.

They kissed lazily, Misha tracing the line of Jensen’s bicep and over the corrugations of his spine. Jensen’s hands finally unwrapped and found his hips, then his ass, issuing a squeeze before sneaking under his shirt and up his back. He inched closer, hooking an ankle over Jensen’s as he channeled his teetering need into drawing out Jensen’s tongue with his own, fingertips flattening into the meat of his shoulder in response.

Jensen must have returned from wherever mistrustful place he’d drifted because suddenly Misha was on his back and being straddled. “I think we should get comfortable,” he declared huskily, fingers finding the top of Misha’s jeans. “Not  _that_ comfortable,” he added, smirking in answer to whatever expression Misha wore.

Misha raised an eyebrow as Jensen popped the button and pulled the zipper, careful eyes on Misha’s face the whole time. Lifting his hips to let Jensen drag them down his thighs and off with efficiency, Misha watched as he dropped the clothing to the floor and stood, repeating the process on himself, then waiting a moment before following with his tee as well. Then he prowled up Misha’s body, pausing to nip playfully at unpredictable points: halfway up one thigh, just left of his belly button then further left on his hip bone, rucking Misha’s shirt as he went and finishing with a graze of teeth to his right nipple.

Then Jensen planted an elbow beside each of Misha’s ears, caging him to the bed and kissing away the shivers threatening to overtake him. There was skin and muscled curves everywhere and he couldn’t move or breathe, and he was absolutely fucking fine with it until Jensen tipped to the side, dragging his mouth away. “I didn’t think that through,” he said sheepishly, shunting the covers out from underneath them. Misha sluggishly got with the program and helped, taking the space to haul off his own shirt and toss it aside.

When they nestled back down, duvet half-drawn, Misha went to fit himself back to Jensen’s form but found himself the object of inspection. “What?” he asked, trying not to let his jittery desire show.

“Just...appreciating the moment,” Jensen replied, steadying his breath. His palm strayed to knead gently at Misha’s waist, but when his knuckles brushed low over Misha’s stomach, he jumped.

“You okay?” Jensen asked.

“Are you waiting for me to have a freakout?” Misha responded.

Jensen pulled a face. “A little,” he admitted, but let his hand find Misha’s sensitized skin again, sweeping small strokes over his ribs on the way to his back. Briana's cautionary apology echoed faintly - he couldn't be sure which of them Jensen was being more careful with.

“Com’ere,” Jensen whispered after a few minutes of Misha basking in his inquisitive gaze.

Misha did, gratefully nosing into the hollow above Jensen’s clavicle as he was gathered close.

 

 

Shafts of sunlight fell from the window where a curtain had been neglected the evening before, hitting the edge of the pillow where Jensen’s sleeping head lay. Misha let his eyes indulge in the angles of his face, relaxed in slumber just like the mouth smooshed cutely to one side and parted to accommodate tiny drafts of air.

He couldn’t pinpoint when he’d fallen asleep. He remembered the house falling quiet as they tuned out the light and made out. He remembered the gradual, languorous exploration their hands had made while they talked, and Jensen’s obvious chaste care that Misha simultaneously appreciated and begrudged. And he remembered how when he’d fallen into a doze, Jensen had stirred and gotten up leaving Misha sleepily agitated for the few minutes until he returned, Misha pulling him back down to guide him into the unnervingly easy position of little spoon before lapsing into unconsciousness.

Maybe Jensen’s subconscious could sense he was being watched because he twitched awake, his features composing themselves before his eyelids flickered then opened. “You’re still here,” he mumbled sleepily.

The thread of disbelief in the thick observation aligned with Misha’s own incredulity. “‘You’re in my bed but yes, I’m here,” he replied, bemused.  _With him._

“That’s why my bed smells weird,” Jensen mumbled.

He tucked a hand under his cheek to watch Jensen finish pulling himself to the surface, breathing deep and twisting from his front to his side and stretching where he could. “Hi,” Misha said when his bedmate’s gaze finally focused.

“Hey,” Jensen smiled.

 _He’s lovely_ , Misha thought, fixated on where the light gleamed through the lens of Jensen’s eye, like sun playing over summer pasture.  _I’m here waking up with him and I think he’s lovely. I’m fucked._

“Whatcha thinkin’?” Jensen added.

Misha groaned shallowly. “That’s a personal question.”

“Go on,” Jensen urged, “you were thinking something; might be the same thing I was thinking.”

“I doubt it,” Misha snickered.

Jensen shuffled in his direction, their feet rubbing together. “Are you ticklish? Because I'll make you tell me.”

“Don’t you dare!” he warned, vaguely horrified, but Jensen wormed closer wearing an ominous smile.

Misha clamped his arms tight in anticipation but the torment never came. Instead, he was kissed, close-mouthed and assuring, Jensen straying a confident hand to stroke at his ribs before teasing his lips apart to swap sweet, musty breath.

Then Jensen grinned against his mouth. “You were really scared then,” he observed, pulling away.

Misha rolled his eyes. “Being subjected to torture interrogation is not how I’ve imagined waking up with you.”

“So you’ve imagined waking up with me?” Jensen noted smugly.  Misha wrinkled his nose at falling into a trap. “What else have you imagined doing with me?”

He didn’t wait for an answer—not that Misha had one he was willing to supply—instead throwing his weight to roll them over before rising to sit across Misha’s hips. “Maybe this?” he asked, bending down to hungrily pressing their mouths together.

Head pushed back into the pillow, Misha has no choice but to arch into the kiss, but at least it absolved him from having to admit yes this wasn’t far off one of his several guiltily constructed fantasies. Then Jensen lifted away, just enough to clasp Misha’s hands from where they’d settled on his thighs. Bringing Misha’s wrists together he levered them back over his head, the crushing nearness of the expanse of his chest hovering over Misha’s face. “Don’t move,” he rasped, sliding his body down Misha’s length in a heavy glide, rough with knees and stubble and overwhelming in the best way, dropping little licks and kisses at various locations of Misha’s torso and leaving him squirming.

Jensen’s mouth nuzzled his abdomen, breath hitching violently at the sudden leapfrog over foreplay leaving his brain way behind. “Thought about me doing this?” Jensen asked.

Misha looked down, the reflective look on his face at odds with the sultry delivery of the question delivered so close to his groin.  “Um—”

“You have, haven’t you.” Jensen crooned, top lip peeled back. “May I?” he asked, tucking fingertips inside the band of Misha’s briefs.

“The kid-gloves are off, huh?” Misha breathed, nerves flaring like plasma following every touch.

Jensen arched one brow. “Want me to slow down?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Fuck no,” Misha reiterated.

“Well alright then,” Jensen said, returning to the task of folding Misha’s underwear downward and skimming them over his legs before settling a knee between them. He hummed when his eyes fell on Misha’s cock, freed from its cotton-elastine constraints. Misha had never felt more naked.

The fact became less of a concern as Jensen pinched at the skin above his hip bones with blunt teeth. “Now real me has to live up to fantasy me,” he remarked in between bites.

“I can grade you, if yo—” Whatever words were to follow in his heroically snarky comment were vaporized by Jensen sucking him down almost to the root. “ _Fuck,”_ he gasped after a few moments of being suspended there, both of them adjusting to the swell. Jensen’s tongue began making small sweeps that had Misha struggling to hold back pathetic little mewls.

Then Jensen began to move, wrapping his free hand around the base to make subtle twists in harmony with each slow draw. Infuriatingly slow, since Misha’s arousal had been shunted from pleasant idle to  _take-off imminent_ in the space of the few seconds encased in the humid nirvana of Jensen’s mouth.

Remembering he had hands, he defied the earlier order to hesitantly find Jensen’s head, weaving fingers into the front strands and risking a look down, his eyes landing on the freckles standing out on the bridge of Jensen’s nose and knuckles. Then Jensen looked up and caught him, popping off to smile while jacking him at the same leisurely pace. “You okay there?” Misha attempted something in the affirmative that came out growly, then bit his lip and allowed himself a little thrust into Jensen’s palm.

Jensen let him go and curled back enough to lap a stripe at the ridge underneath Misha’s balls, so tight and hyper-sensitized that when Jensen delicately sucked one on to the flat of his tongue Misha hissed and tensed. With a satisfied noise in the back of his throat, Jensen continued with a lick to Misha's length chased by a cool blast of air. Cock and hips twitching, Misha spent a millisecond debating whether it was time to take a less passive role in proceedings, but then Jensen’s mouth slammed home on him again and unavoidably bucked into the heat, instantly forgetting any chivalry.

It seemed mere seconds before he was hurtling towards the edge of the chasm, fingers scrabbling to find Jensen’s hair to give a warning tug. “Jen— I’m—” he wheezed

Jensen stilled, holding his orgasm at bay. “S’ok baby,” he soothed, lips massaging over his slit.

 _Baby, he called me baby_ he registered, sending sensations rampaging in what was apparently the clincher when Jensen engulfed him once more, Misha coming high pitched and abs crunching to avoid punching through the back of Jensen’s throat.

Jolting currents punctuated every dab of Jensen’s tongue as Misha was licked clean while his chemical-doused brain wafted. It wasn’t until he was being kissed again, deep and searching and salty that he revived.

“How're you doing?” Jensen asked when Misha opened his eyes to see them reflected above him.

Misha swallowed. “Embarrassed,” he confessed, voice tattered.

Jensen chuckled darkly, the tip of his tongue darting across his lower lip. “Well, you passed the taste test at least.”

“There was a test?”

He ghosted experimental fingertips over the solid curves of Jensen’s bracing arms while he forced himself to laze under the liquid green appraisal and impudent eyebrows. “Speaking of, how’d I do?”

Misha mustered a smile. “Fantasy You has to work on their game,” he replied, and Jensen grinned back. “But—uh—what about you?” he added, looking pointedly down the space between them.

“I’m good for now,” Jensen answered, lowering himself nonetheless to gently grind the bulge in his boxers against Misha’s thigh. Still feeling the imbalance was purposeful, Misha ran his nails ruthlessly down Jensen’s back and zig-zagged over his sides.

Jensen shivered, then buried his face. “Still worried I just want in your pants?” Misha enquired, the joke faltering on the last word.

It took a while for Jensen to respond, occupying himself in the meantime exploring the skin behind Misha’s ear with his lips. The enveloping weight was weirdly consuming, and he was almost surprised when Jensen’s face came into view again.

“Whatever will be, right?” Jensen implored, gaze attentive.  A short reprisal of the turmoil he’d felt over his future the previous few days tapped an SOS deep in Misha's gut.

Raising his mouth to Jensen’s was the only antidote he could think of. He kissed him meticulously, trying to winnow the skepticism and uncertainty out of the moment with each chart of his tongue over and between Jensen’s lips. He didn’t know what would happen when they left this room, but he was in no hurry to find out and judging by the way Jensen was subsided into him with a stripped out groan, he wasn’t either.

Eventually, they separated for oxygen. “Que sera sera,” Misha breathed belatedly over Jensen’s mouth.

Jensen’s lips stretched into a smile. “Can you speak Spanish?” he asked.

Misha arched his right eyebrow. “That’s about the only phrase I know. But I can learn more.”

Another kiss landed before Jensen drew back, teeth worrying at his bottom lip and suddenly looking more disheveled than Misha had ever seen him, finally enquiring, “How are you at accents?”

 

 


	11. Epilogue

 

 

_“You haven’t told him!?”_

Misha winced at Felicia’s not unreasonable shriek. He’d been staring at the letter on and off for days now wondering what to do, hindered by how he’d had no idea how to feel about it. It wasn’t until half an hour previous, after he’d come home to find the apartment deserted and had lain on his bed, randomly listening with eyes closed to the entirety of Rachmaninov’s piano concerto no.2 which had seemed to uncannily mirror every emotion plaguing him, that he’d managed to find peace with what he dared to decide about his immediate future. Which is precisely when his best friend had decided to call.

“I haven’t told him, because I didn’t know for sure what I was going to do,” he argued.

_“You don’t think he should be involved in the decision? He’s staying at school now, right?”_

“Leese, it’s only been a couple of months,” he said, brow furrowing. “Yes he’s resigned himself to enrolling for post-grad but this is _my_ life, and I don’t want to assume he wants to have a say in it. We entered into this knowing it was likely a finite thing.”

Felicia’s forbearing sigh blew down the line. _“Meesh, you’ve been together three months, and you love him.”_

Misha made a slightly hysterical noise. “I haven’t told him that either,” he confessed.

 _“Well this is probably a good way of doing that,”_ she said with her perpetually uncanny ability to point out the timely truth.

Or at least half the truth. Sure this new, surprising, metamorphic thing they’d entered into had been a factor in reaching the conclusion he had, but he had tried to subtract it from the equation as much as was practically possible, not the least of reasons being was that they both seemed to know they were holding something back. Whether that was motivated by self-preservation or because there wasn’t a way of knowing how much more—if anything—was possible, Misha guessed they’d soon find out. His contingency was if they proved to be purely a speculative exercise with a limited hypothesis, then at least he was still advancing his future in a way his doting grandmother would be proud, and he could reassess in another year with his resume looking healthier. 

“Let’s hope he sees it that way,” Misha timidly noted.

_“He might surprise you.”_

“His entire existence surprises me.”

Felicia groaned, then laughed, and Misha opened the book in his lap again intending to say his goodbyes. Just as he’d opened his mouth, he heard the front door slam shut and immediately held his breath.

 _“Misha?”_ asked his friend’s confused voice.

“Shh! I think he’s home.”

 _“So tell him!”_ she whispered tersely while his ears strained for familiar footsteps.

Jensen demonstrated his feline ability to appear without further warning in the doorway though he didn’t so much as pause, stalking right in and across the floor where he mounted the bed, straddled Misha’s hips and removed the book from his suddenly nervous hands.

“Hi honey, I’m home,” Jensen said with a dimpled grin, dumping the text next to the where the phone lay beside Misha’s shoulder, asserting “nerd time is over,” before planting an uncompromising kiss on his mouth.

 _“Eeuch,_ ” said Felicia cheerfully, still on the line.

Jensen froze, then looked sideways.

“I was just talking to Felicia but since you neglected to even knock, I didn’t have a chance to get rid of her,” Misha explained, unable to hide a smile under the onslaught of six formidable feet of sunshine and sex on long bowed legs landing on his lap and offering undivided attention.

 _“Hey!”_ Felicia protested, interrupting Misha’s brief reminiscence into the previous night’s activities when he and Jensen’s positions were identical but there had been a lot fewer clothes more viscous fluids. He made a note to make sure they slept in Jensen’s room tonight - assuming this conversation went well, of course.

Jensen’s buttery smirk returned. “Well if you weren’t so fucking kissable maybe I’d remember my manners,” he said, pretending to sulk as if Misha had waltzed into his life and turned it upside down, and not the other way around.

_“Ugh! Okay! I can’t compete with the level of gross you two are. I’m going!"_

“Bye Leese,” Misha said magnanimously.

 _“Bye-ee. And tell your boyfriend!”_ she added, throwing a departing bomb before she ended the call.

“Sometimes I dislike her,” Misha intoned, feeling his throat constrict. He ran his hands up Jensen’s thighs to ground himself, avoiding the puzzled look on his face.

“Tell me what?” Jensen murmured playfully, threaded with apprehension. He made no move to remove himself from where he sat, so Misha felt he had no choice but to make it now or never. Which was probably a good thing; procrastination was a flaw he'd often indulge if given half a chance.

“Um, so—”

“You have a permanent job offer,” Jensen interrupted, slumping back with a resigned look settling on his face.

“I do,” Misha confirmed, hating the sharp fissure that cleaved Jensen’s expression for a moment. “I haven’t accepted it yet,” he continued hurriedly.

“Okay,” Jensen replied, expression wary.

Misha wound his fingers in the hem of Jensen’s t-shirt, wanting to sneak them underneath and make contact but feeling like he wasn’t yet allowed. “After I handed in my thesis, my Professor called me,” he began. "He said that he was going advise the department to invite me to enroll as a Ph.D. candidate.”

Jensen’s frown grew thoughtful. “Um, okay.”  

“He also said that there was a teaching position opening up—just a part-time instructor, but it's real faculty with autonomous teaching time. He said if I applied, there was a good chance I’d be offered it.”

This time Jensen’s brow lost its wrinkle as it shot skyward. “And?”

“And, they sent me a formal offer,” he replied, still somewhat incredulous. “I haven’t even had my thesis graded—” He was interrupted by Jensen pushing him back into the pillow with a desperate, small moan behind the press of his mouth.

Then just as abruptly the kiss withdrew. “Wait, you haven’t accepted it yet?” he asked.

Misha blinked. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I...I guess I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Talk to me?” The furrows were back.

“Yes, You. Make sure you—uh—were okay with me staying,” he finished sheepishly.

Jensen sat back again and looked at the ceiling. “Oh my God,” he exclaimed, blowing out a long, loud breath.

It was Misha’s turn to frown. “What?”

“ _Am I okay with you staying_?” he repeated, looking at Misha like he was the dumbest person alive.

“Um—” He’d never grow tired of Jensen’s weight on top of him but the repeated rotation of his occupier’s pelvis against his own was beginning to wear.

Jensen cast his eyes down, a strange faraway look in them but no less bright than when they’d first walked in the room, full of mischief. “I’m kind of in love with you, genius,” he said matter-of-factly, “so I’m very okay with you sticking around.”

Misha felt like he might fly apart then and there, his ribcage not big enough to hold the sudden expanse untwisting within. His tongue didn’t seem to want to work either.

“Sorry,” Jensen said, mouth pursing hesitantly, “should’a probably picked a better time to throw that out there.”

Rearing up, Misha caught Jensen at the small of his back and flipped him off and over so that he crouched on all fours above Jensen’s startled form. “Christ, I also fuckinglove when you do that,” Jensen added, not telling Misha anything he hadn’t worked out for himself, to his ongoing astonished delight.

Hungrily surveying Jensen’s face, Misha noticed where freckles were beginning to join in places, even though the summer sun was still new. Though the blush smearing his cheeks could partially be to blame.

“What?” Jensen enquired.

“I love you,” Misha replied, the words carbonated and impulsive.

“Yeah?”

Misha’s smile couldn’t stretch any further. “I’ve known for a while,” he confirmed.

“Huh.” Jensen’s gaze took a Sunday drive around Misha’s face. “You must be sure, then.”

As preposterous as it seemed, he was. “Not even finding out you like to listen to country changed my mind,” Misha qualified.

Jensen huffed a laugh, then spider-monkeyed all his limbs around Misha to haul him down so they pressed together chest to toe, followed by mouths.

“You gave me a fright, you shit,” Jensen eventually said, hands still kneading Misha’s hair into a disaster.

“Sorry.”

“I thought everyone was leaving.”

“Leaving?” Misha slid his weight back to the bed and molded himself to Jensen’s side, using his bicep as a pillow.

“Yeah, Robbie just told me last night he was moving in with Mel. Thought for a second there I was gonna have to place a double ad.”

“So you mostly want me for my rent check and willingness to scrub the shower?”

Jensen didn’t bother answering other than by curling over and attempting to stick his tongue down Misha’s throat, which he supposed was both an argument and an effective silencing technique.

“Speaking of—” Misha began when he was allowed some air, “Felicia was talking about moving somewhere cheaper and off campus.” He wormed his way onto his back and waited for Jensen’s reaction.

“Hmm, I like her,” Jensen said, nuzzling into his favorite spot in Misha’s neck. “She called me your boyfriend.”  Then he drew back as Misha turned to present a quizzical eyebrow. “Ya know, you can call yourself that too,” he challenged.

“I think we need to be technically dating for that to be accurate,” Misha joked.

“Only because to be dating we need to actually leave the goddamn house together.”

“Ehh.” Misha gave a shrug of ambivalence and kissed him his content with their cocoon, though he supposed going out without their friends would be a welcome change.

Jensen’s free hand molded behind Misha’s ear but he pulled his mouth away. “You’re definitely staying?” he asked, eyes tight.

“Yes. I’m staying.”

Jensen exhaled a warm breeze across his face. “It can take a long time to do a Ph.D,” he observed shyly.

Humming agreement, Misha felt the blank slate of his life stretch across his mind, paused with possibilities rather than questions.

“I hear it’s not uncommon to never finish them,” he suggested.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to any and all of you who were patient enough to read this as a sometimes painfully slow WIP and encouraged me with your comments - they really mean everything.  
> For what was originally a short ficlet, this really got out of hand (as they do.) But nonetheless I'm glad I stuck around with these two.


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